


dried up red sea

by babyh



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Bullying, Denial, Depressed Peter Parker, Depression, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Protective Tony Stark, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, flash is ooc, hes meaner than usual, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-07-06 19:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15892371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyh/pseuds/babyh
Summary: "I'm sad," Peter whispers. "Like, really fucking sad. Like I hurt myself. A lot. I guess."





	1. apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> sorta writing this as a vent and also i love angst fics so i wanted to feed my people

 

Peter jolts up from his desk, startled awake by his head thudding against the surface. He clenches his jaw, pushing up his glasses and squinting at his digital clock. It angrily flashes 2:00 a.m. back at him. He sighs, rubbing his temples and cursing his poor decision of reading Star Wars comics instead of studying.

 

He feels around his notebook for his pencil, letting out another sigh at coming up short. He shuffles through his drawer lethargically, the warm glow of his desk lamp doing little to help his vision. Peter shuts his eyes as he searches, convincing himself that he's doing it so he can feel out for a pencil better, not because he's tired–

 

"Ow!" Peter hisses, eyes shooting open at a sudden pain flooding his finger. He leans in closely and squints at a shiny red bead of blood forming at the very tip of his pinkie. The pyjama-clad boy shoves his finger in his mouth, and the split second the coppery flavor hit his tongue he realizes that he's not tired anymore. If anything, he's wide awake.

 

With a renewed vigor, he searches his drawer for a pencil. Peter shifts around through the miscellaneous stationary, letting out a breath of relief when at last he discovers a blue mechanical pencil. Peering even more closely, he can see a small broken shard of glass—the perpetrator that nicked his pinkie. He blinks, carefully taking it between his pointer finger and thumb, and drops it into his overflowing wastebasket. Second-hand furniture is dangerous.

 

Thirty minutes into conjugating hacer in both present and past tense, he feels his eyelids start to grow heavy. His stomach rumbles noisily, but he ignores it, biting down hard on his lip to wake himself up again. The familiar coppery taste returns. Peter marvels at it's immediate effectiveness—his exhaustion disappearing so soundly he's unsure if pain was even necessary in the first place.

 

A sudden thought occurs: if he can gain this much sustenance from tiny finger pricks and lip bites, how helpful would an actual cut be? He straightens, reaching down to his bottom drawer where all his tools are for fixing computers and other Manly Stuff. It only takes a moment to find his target: a slightly dented box opener, with a shiny green plastic handle.

 

Leaning back in his chair, he confirms that his door is firmly shut and locked. The clock flashes. He knows it needs to be somewhere inconspicuous. Peter pulls down his plaid boxer shorts until he could see just below the crease between his hip and his thigh. He has a spanish quiz that he doesn't intend to fail.

 

 _The slight sting is worth it_ , he tells himself. _It's not like it won't heal._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Three months later, his workload is heavier, and the thin red lines smattered across his upper thighs are evidence enough to prove it. He's not concerned; any scarring is so light nobody even notices, and they fade within a couple weeks of appearing. His little trick pays off in his grades. Peter Parker has reached no. 1 in class rankings.

 

News spreads fast in Midtown, especially in regards to academic performance. It's infamous for being competitive. Ned is happy for him, slapping him on the back and grinning wildly, mouth running on about _we have to celebrate,_ and _I found this Star Wars Monopoly set we NEED to play this weekend_. Peter actually feels a flicker of excitement for a moment, all his studying and homework taking a visible toll on his body. A break–especially for some obscure board game with Ned–was more than welcome. Then reality rears it's ugly head, and he sinks his head down, dropping his backpack with a sound thump.

 

The air in his bedroom feels tight, constricting his throat and banging into the back of his teeth as he lets out a breath. He spins around to face Ned. Adjacent to his desk, the filipino boy is seated on his lower bunk, smiling expectantly at him.

 

"I can't," Peter sighs, shifting self-consiously in his swirly chair. Ned's face drops. "I got a huge Chem project due monday. I need to focus."

 

Ned nods in understanding, but his disappointment is clear. Peter frowns, guilty. He's going to offer Spring Break, but that's several weeks away. The novelty of being no. 1 would have worn off by then.

 

That night, after Ned bids his goodbye and his Aunt and Uncle retire for bed, Peter hovers anxiously by his second drawer. He licks his lips. As if he has some mutant x-ray vision, he can see the blade gleaming under a careful stack of notebooks. The weight of it in his hands, the clean slice into his leg, again and again and again until he feels a different weight ease off his shoulders. He can visualize the way his stomach would untwist, his persistent anxiety dissolving, his body sagging down in relief.

 

Peter sighs, shaking his head and clicking the light off. He's not going to cut himself for anything other than academic reasons. He won't.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The following morning, Peter finds that not everyone is as supportive and caring as Ned Leeds. Flash, with all his rich arrogance and flocks of peers, has a particular vendetta against Peter. And he's not shy about showing it.

 

"Penis Parker!" Flash hollers, garnering a flood of laughter from his friends surrounding him. Peter tries to ignore him, hunching down and walking faster to the main entrance. Quick footsteps follow him, and before Peter can so much as blink, Flash has painfully grabbed his shoulder and spun him around to his front. "Why so eager to leave, huh? How far up the teacher's asses do you have to get? We all know you don't deserve that GPA." Flash's spit flies onto Peter's face, and Peter can't help flinching back to avoid it.

 

Flash throws him backwards, not hard enough for him to actually topple over, but enough to trip excessively. A chorus of laughs follow the action, making Peter's cheeks burn. He shudders, adjusting his shirt and wiping the saliva off his cheek. He turns around as if nothing happened. _Don't encourage him, don't encourage him,_ Peter repeats back and forth in his mind. The words still stung, more than any cuts on his thigh. He earned those grades. Did people actually think he was only a suck up?

 

His head throbs. Normally Flash is easy to brush off, but for some reason the teasing hit deep today. His throat clogs up, and as much as Peter tries to chew on his lip, it begins to tremble. Shit. He can't afford to cry. He just works so damn much—tutoring kids afterschool, practicing for the decathalon, staying up late to review, studying until he's nearly passed out with exhaution. Everyday. And now it's being thrown back in his face. Anxiety crawls up his throat, vision blurring in a way unrelated to his spectacles.

 

Peter speedwalks to the restroom, locking himself in a stall. With his back pressed flush against the door, he lets out some hiccuping, shaky breaths. He's not going to have a breakdown. It's already humiliating enough that Flash makes fun of him for his grades every other second, Peter cannot give him actual fuel to burn. His eyes burn. _No, no, no, no._

 

He knows he needs a release. Peter huffs out a frustrated sigh, biting down the urge to scream. He's not doing it because he's sad. He doesn't care about the teasing, of course he doesn't. It just makes sense not to escalate it further. He needs to focus in class, but he won't be able to with all this hurt pounding against his ribcage.

 

The zip of his backpack cuts through the silence in the restroom. He didn't bring the box-opener, but he can improvise. Pencil-sharpener's have a blade, right? Peter shakes out his pencil bag, and out pops a neon green pencil-sharpener. It's the cheap kind from the dollar store, the one that comes in a dozen and has the razor on the outside, perfect for untwisting.

 

After turning the screw counter-clockwise, he throws the screw into his backpack and watches the blade gleam. The first thing he notices is how much smaller it is compared to the thick and precise handle on the box opener.

 

Immediately, his anxiety unfurls. The tears stop stinging self-importantly, and he breathes with less resistance. He hasn't even pushed the blade into his skin yet. Peter pulls down the hem of his jeans, and without flinching, cuts over some older scars.

 

The red bubbles up in unison with his mood.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It becomes kind of a routine to have a blade on him at all times. He gets too nervous without one, antsy in a way that shows in his bouncing knee and clenching jaw. It's not like he's going to cut himself wherever he goes—it's just a fail-safe. Better to hide in the men's restroom and slice up his leg than have a breakdown in front of everyone at an arcade. Or movie marathon with the decathalon. Or dinner with Uncle Ben and Aunt May.

 

The point is, nowhere is safe. He doesn't need to cut himself most of the time anyways, just having the knowledge that he has access to one helps him breathe easy. That cold panic back in the Midtown's bathroom stall doesn't need a return.

 

When crime rates increase near their apartment complex, Uncle Ben solemly gifts him with a pocket knife. It's for self defense. Peter nods with the same somber expression, promising to use it only in emergencies. Later the same day, he marvels at how much more effective it is to hurt himself with a serrated blade.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Captain America has a PSA video on depression and anxiety. It's very informational and helpful, but Peter couldn't be more uncomfortable when it played in his Honors English Lit class. The teacher says it's a good intro into their next novel, and as everyone watches raptly, Peter itches to cut a smooth line into his lower hip.

 

Then Captain America informs them on how to recognize self-harm, and it feels like Peter's entire world crashes down. His heart is beating so fast, fear rushing through him, before he realizes nobody could possibly find out. He hid it so well. Nobody would—nobody would even guess that he—

 

"Peter?" someone whispers, tapping his shoulder. He barely registers it, glancing behind him with a small fake smile. Michelle stares at him with such a knowing look that his anxiety sky-rockets. "You good?" She asks, and oh boy. If Michelle can bring herself to be worried about him, he must look fucking bad.

 

He nods, turning around quickly before she can stare at him more with her too-perceptive eyes. He forces his shoulders to relax, and distracts himself with calming thoughts.

 

Michelle couldn't tell anyone even if she knew. Everybody knows she has no friends. But she doesn't know—how could she? It's not like she saw anything. Being nervous during a nerve-wracking intense video like this was normal. He's fine. He's fine.

 

(He sure as hell doesn't feel fine when after class he excuses himself to the restroom and draws a couple lines with his razor. The gut-twisting feeling recedes though, and he tells himself it's worth it.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

During gym, Peter is always slower to change into his regular clothes, waiting for everyone else to leave as a precaution. He gets a couple side-eyes, some whispers along the lines of _what a pussy._ His fear gets him through it—anything is better than getting exposed. Once everyone has clustered by the gym doors, a short minute til the bell rings, he finally strips down to his underwear and reaches into his gym locker for jeans.

 

His deep blue locker is thankfully tucked away into a corner, providing him with even more inconspiciousness. There are four rows of lockers, and his is farthest from the exit. This is a decidedly good thing. Less people are passing by this area, which means less people will see him changing, and less of a chance of his wounds being noticed. A beautiful coincidence, as the lockers were picked at random. The only downside was that he shared his row (including the row behind him) with five people he had never talked to.

 

Peter is unfurling his pants when he hears someone walk up behind him, and he assumes it's Ned so he doesn't bother turning around. This is his first mistake. The unidentified person grips his underwear hem, and unceremoniously shoves it down. Peter's heart leaps in his throat. He lets out a strangled gasp, banging into the locker in the same viciousness that he pulls his boxers back up with. He drops down to hide his body, hugging his knees close. With a shudder, he cranes his neck around to see Flash looking down on him.

 

Just. Standing there, staring at his hands. Shocked. Not the vindictive humor Peter had expected.

 

"Parker..." he starts, throat bobbing. Peter sees a streak of red on his hand as he drops it down. Peter could pass out with how quickly his heart was beating. "Do you cut yourself?"

 

If only Captain America hadn't made that stupid fucking PSA video, maybe Flash wouldn't have realized what the blood meant. God fuck America.

 

"N-no!" Peter quickly responds. The tremble in his voice gives himself away, and he wishes he could sink into the ground. He'd rather be anywhere but here, in this moment, where his most private secret was discovered by the very bane of his existence.

 

Humiliatingly, his eyes blur. He blinks furiously. Peter won't cry. Nonetheless he squeezes his eyes shut, hugging his arms around his torso to hide himself better.

 

"That was blood." Flash states, expression blank. Peter hides his face between his knees, his throat blocked up with a heavy lump. His entire body shakes, goosebumps rising at the exposed skin. He wonders how much of a mess he must look, half naked and panicking on the floor of the boy's locker room.

 

"...Do—on't tell a—anyone. Please." And there it is. The confirmation he didn't realize he could give. His second mistake, if you will. Peter doesn't look up, fearful of what face Flash must be making.

 

"Okay," Flash says, and Peter sags with relief. "But you have to do what I say." Peter tenses again immediately, head spinning around in horror.

 

Flash is grinning now, wiping his hand on the back of his jeans. "Drop out of the decathalon," he demands. Peter's mouth drops open, eyes clouding up with unwanted tears. His breathing grows heavy.

 

"You're blackmailing me?" he whispers, disbelieving.

 

Flash only shrugs haplessly. As if to say, _there's no helping it._ Peter is disgusted, but more pertinently, outraged. His scars were never supposed to be seen by anybody. How dare Flash act as if it's his God-given right to use them for ulterior motives?

 

"No," Peter bites, tears rolling down his face, incongruous with the firm line of his lips. Flash's face flashes, eyes narrowed and mouth pulled into a sneer. Peter unwittingly flinched.

 

"Hey, you should be thankful I'm not telling everybody about this!" He shouts, far too loud for Peter's liking. In the back of his mind, he wonders if Coach Wilson has come inside to lock up yet. "You owe me, Parker."

 

Fear coils around Peter, clinging onto his trembling body and heavy tongue, forcing his mouth open to say—"Okay." Because the only thing worse than Flash knowing, is everyone he sees on a daily basis giving him that dreadful twisted pity. He would rather die.

 

Flash's indignant expression relaxes, and he rolls back on his heels. He opens his mouth, hesitates, and closes it. "Show me them." There's no doubt what them is referring to.

 

Peter nearly shouts _no way!_ before he reminds himself that it's either this, or the entire school. So he stands up, finally turning his entire body around to face the worst thing that has ever happened to him. And he obediently rolls the edge of his boxers up. Half his cuts are on display. He's never felt more vulnerable.

 

Flash leans forward, looking as his body like it's a mutated cell in Bio class, laid bare on a slide and enlarged beneath a microscope. "Woah, Parker, these are deep," he murmurs. Peter swallows futilely at the thick lump in his throat. More tears roll down his cheeks, resting heavy at the base of his chin before dropping to the cold gym floor.

 

He takes a deep shuddering breath, and asks, "Are you done?" intoned with such a pointed slowness that Flash would be hard-pressed to not notice it. His glasses do nothing to aid his vision, his eyes so blurred that Flash looks like an indecipherable blob in front of him. He blinks, clearing the tears away, and gets a glimpse of Flash before more come stinging back.

 

In the split second he sees him, Flash almost looks guilty, but that observation is dismissed when he re-opens his mouth. "I can take my sweet time," he scoffs, "also you better tell Mr. Harrington. Or. You know." He cocks his head towards Peter's thighs, and lifts an eyebrow suggestively. Peter ducks his head to the side in response, hiding his quickly warming face.

 

A few moments pass, silence enveloping the room as Flash continues to stare holes into his thighs. Peter wishes he could go back in time, and prevent this humiliating moment from ever happening. He rubs at his persistent tears, his hands getting wet at their intensity. Peter sniffs, which seems to be jarring enough that Flash finally leans back.

 

"Tell Mr. Harrington," he reminds, and simply walks away.

 

Peter pulls the edge of his boxers down, and stares at Flash's blurry figure turn a corner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some parts of this i was unsatisfied with and i rly wish i had a beta so if anyone wants to step forward.. anywyas pls give me feedback so i can improve & i will try to update regularly but my schedule is dysfunctional and im unorganized so get into this w low expectations. also i wrote this in present tense thne i got insecure and edited some of it into past tense which made no sense so i went back and did it in present tense again but i might have fucked up and accidentally left some in past tense(?) if that makes sense. anyways if u see any awkward dissonance in tenses pls point it out so i can edit it. also that part where peter talks about making a habit of always having a blade is lowkey unneeded but i liked how i wrote it so i kept it in anyways but if yall think its unnecessary maybe lmk. ALSO idk if mcu spidey had glasses so maybe lmk as well bc i kinda jus. gave him some. Gn thank u for readint this long ass note


	2. upside down and sideways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i was aiming to update every week but every two weeks it is ig ALSO BIG SUICIDE TW !!

Mr. Harrington sighs through his nose, lips pursed and brow stern. His eyes scour Peter’s face from beneath thick-rimmed glasses, and he leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. Peter clenches and unclenches his jaw, smiling benignly to disguise the anxiety-induced actions.

 

“I’m disappointed,” he finally says, voice low. “Your placement meant a lot to the team. I’ll let you go, Peter, but know that you’re always welcome back.”

 

Peter nods, but internally wants to throttle the man. _I don’t_ want _to do this, can’t you see that?_ He pushes his negative thoughts aside, wordlessly standing and exiting the classroom. His hands tremble, but he shoves them into crossed arms and prays Mr. Harrington doesn’t notice.

 

When he slips out, the door shuts with a quiet click. It’s hinges, oiled frequently, don’t so much as creak in goodbye. Peter’s heart thuds, and he counts in his head. Once. Twice. Mr. Harrington never leaves to check up on him, doesn’t have a change of heart to usher Peter into staying. Peter swallows the displeasure out of his throat, and walks to his locker with a hanging head.

 

* * *

 

Peter texts the group-chat to let everyone know that he quit, but before he clicks _Leave_ on the bottom of the screen, he catches an inundation of messages.

 

_hi, i thought it would be better to send this here than for you guys to hear from Mr. Harrington, but i just quit the decathlon due to personal reasons. thank you for being understanding, i’m going to leave the groupchat after this sends._

 

_michelle from english: what_

 

_michelle from english: maybe don’t_

 

_ned (a legend): Are u okay???? :( this isn’t like u?_

 

_liz: Peter, we need you. Can we talk about this more?_

 

_betty b is typing…_

 

Peter leaves before he sees everyone else’s response, and prays that Flash is satisfied.

 

* * *

 

There’s an elephant on his chest. A heavy, 13,000 pound elephant, pushing all of it’s weight onto Peter’s weak lungs. There’s also a pillow on his face, and he’s underwater, and—you get the gist. Point in blank, Peter can’t breathe.

 

He’s had asthma since he was a kid. It’s been a while since he’s gotten an attack this bad, so severe that he only has enough energy to bonelessly collapse onto the gym track. His inhaler is in his jacket pocket, but he’s so focused on trying to get in air that he can’t even gesture to it. There’s a lot of noise around him, voices blending and faces blending and the light dimming and–

 

A breath of fresh air. His inhaler is loose in his mouth, but he takes in another swallow of the medicine. Peter’s eyes focus, slightly impeded by fogged lenses but still able to hone in on the frantic face of Liz Allan. He’s too exhausted to really process the significance of this.

 

In the nurse’s office, he’s recounting the attack and finally understands. Liz gave him his inhaler. His face warms and his voice falters as he expresses this to the nodding staff, his mind wandering to how horrific he must have looked to her. Nonetheless, his heart picks up whenever someone mentions her from that point onward. You could call it a crush.

 

* * *

 

Everyone wants to make a big deal out of it. Aunt May and Uncle Ben are treating him like glass, following him around and fussing as if he hasn’t been dealing with this since before he could remember. Ned is a constant at his side in school, bumping his shoulder in his literal proximity to Peter. Everyone else give them a wide berth—well, almost everyone; Flash was a bit of a nuisance like always—scared to be around Peter in case he has another asthma attack.

 

He reassures their mounting anxieties with incessant reminders that he always has his inhaler on him, and that Coach Wilson promised to be a great deal more lenient in class. His workload ebbs a little, and Peter is worried that if everyone keeps babying him, he’ll lose his ranking.

 

The whole situation rubs Peter raw, and he vents his frustrations onto his body. The cuts are hiking up higher and higher, as he runs out of areas easier to disguise. His scars also take longer to heal. He likes the feeling of sliding the blade in deeper. The pain lasts longer this way, returning suddenly if his jeans crease in the wrong place or if he hits his thigh against the side of a chair too hard. It’s slightly addicting. There’s such a sudden and beautiful relief that follows the action. Like taking a breath after not being able to breathe.

 

* * *

 

A spider bites him. He gets powers.

 

Of course Peter knows what mutants are. They’re all over the news, the age-old debate of whether people with unique abilities should have the same rights as regular people. He had never given thought to whether he would become one of those mysterious mutants, spat out like a slur from some people, but revered and loved by others. Peter’s always known his stance on that kind of stuff. People are people, regardless of whether they have super-strength or x-ray vision.

 

Everything about it seems arbitrary now. You can never vouch for something you don’t understand, and now that Peter is beyond human, he has bigger concerns. Like pretending to go to Ned’s house, whilst shoving on a ski mask with sensory-deprivation goggles and a vest with a spider stamped on it.

 

He understands that he could be inciting more trouble than what it’s worth, but there’s a visceral need in him to go out of his way to help other people. Peter knows at the core of it his motivation isn’t noble. He’s selfish, and he likes how people thank him after helping them.

 

His vigilante antics cause him to not harm himself as often. With all the time he spends as Spider-man, he’s already getting bruised from underestimating his web-shooters, or overestimating his adhesive fingers. The pain feels more excusable that way. There’s less mental breakdowns in the middle of the night, no more ugly crying because he’s out of pencil lead and stressed and he just dislikes #2 pencils; no more aggressive red marks staining his skin and his throat feeling blocked up for hours afterwards. Peter can just press his thumb into a yellowing bruise, feel the pain shoot through him and focus better. It’s justifiable. He got hurt helping someone. There’s no disputing that. (His incentive, however, was another story).

 

This tenuous routine maintains itself for the grand total of one week.

 

He’s resting on the top of a tall building when he hears her—his mask is off, so his sensitive hearing picks up the slight shifting of clothing and quiet footsteps. Peter at first thinks nothing of it, used to the susurration of people falling into background noise. He’s ruminating on when he should begin his analysis of Bruce Banner’s research, when he snaps to attention and realizes he’s on a 20 story building that nobody else should really be on.

 

The knee-jerk reaction is to book it out of there, an immediate fear of being in trouble for being somewhere he isn’t supposed to be rattling in his chest. Peter glances behind him, expecting to see some authority figure in a suit or a construction worker in bright orange, but is instead met with a young woman of around 20-27, her white nightgown billowing in the biting cold air.

 

Peter gapes, quickly pulling on his mask and softly walking towards her. Her legs hang off the building, her brown skin a juxtaposition against the silk pale fabric. She turns, apparently sensing his presence, but she doesn’t seem shocked. The most jarring thing about her was the blank expression of her face, so tired and worn he wonders if anything could bring her to smile, even with force.

 

“Hey,” Peter whispers, afraid to raise his voice too loud and startle her into falling off, “you shouldn’t be up here.”

 

She says nothing, only tucking her hair behind her ear and rotating back to look down at the steep drop. The motion catches Peter’s attention, and with his acute vision he can see silvery horizontal lines running up and down her arm. His mouth goes dry.

 

Her hands are braced against the the edge of the roof. She lifts her weight off of where she’s sitting, and lets her body fall.

 

Peter runs, leaning down the side of the building and shooting out what must be a vial of web fluid, but his aim is still so shitty because he just started this a week ago and he misses her body and—

 

Splat.

 

Peter will never forget the sound her body makes when it hit the cement. It was the same noise of a tomato hitting a hard surface. That horrible squelch. Her body landing unnaturally, leg twisted so wrong and blood pooling around her, so much that he wonders if there’s ever an end to it.

 

* * *

 

He relapses. Bad. He’s cutting far less carefully than before he was Spider-Man, his healing factor giving him more versatility. Thankfully, his powers don’t mute the initial pain, it only goes away faster. Peter makes up for it by slicing everywhere he can think. His arms are no longer a danger zone, everything he leaves behind disappearing in mere hours.

 

Peter doesn’t have any asthma attacks anymore, but in their stead he’s having countless panic attacks. He’s lucky that his attacks aren’t the noticeable ones that cause a scene. Peter can quietly hyperventilate and descend into a spiral in the middle of History and have everyone none-the-wiser.

 

It’s little things that set him off. Sometimes it’s vocal, when people mention thing like “suicide”, “cutting”, “jump off a building”, and synonyms. The worst part is that it’s almost never in a serious context, like when Ned tells him that he “wants to jump off a building during PE, it’s so hard” and Peter nods in assent, even as his mind replaces the woman’s body with Ned’s.

 

Sometimes visual things are the hitters. During the D.C. trip that year, Peter and Ned are grabbing some snacks from the hotel lobby when Michelle walks into the mini-store with a yawn. She’s wearing a white shirt. Realistically, Peter knows she looks nothing like that woman, but seeing her brown skin adjacent to the pale fabric has him excusing himself to the bathroom with a twisting stomach and itchy arms.

 

As he goes out to help people, Peter becomes so reckless it’s a marvel he hasn’t died yet. In fact, he’s pretty sure if he didn’t have his abilities, he would be long dead. His healing factor is tirelessly abused. He stops concentrating on improving, just letting himself make obvious mistakes and risks that nearly cost him an arm. Or more.

 

The thought that he could one day end up like that girl, empty of emotions and running on self-mutilation, consumes him. It eats away at any smile that might land on his face, cheapening the expression and leaving him feeling unwhole. He wonders if anyone notices, wants desperately for someone to ask if he’s okay, but nobody seems to care. Of course, his Aunt and Uncle and Ned are always questioning him, but at this point it feels more out of habit than any true concern.

 

Michelle gives him these deeply saddened looks, ones that he rolls over in his brain hours after she has them. If it weren’t for the benefit of his acute senses, he doubts he would have even been able to notice them. She will often frown at his turned head, barely perceptible through his peripheral vision, but still catchable. She might crease her brow low, tilting her head empathetically. It always makes his stomach twist. There’s so much of him that wants her to help, but so much more that would rather die than accept it.

 

Flash’s teasing does little to help his mental state. Peter is used to it. Well, he _was_ used it. But now Flash is targeting more personal things, hitting sore spots that ache so soundly he thinks about them for months.

 

“Hey, Parker, horizontal or vertical?” A pause, just enough seconds for Peter’s breathing to stutter and his heart to skip a beat. “On the axis, of course. If y is greater than negative 3…” Peter will tune out Flash’s grating voice, softly pressing his pointer and middle finger against his pulse to see how quickly his heart is beating. It’s always unnaturally fast.

 

Flash never ends with one comment, pushing slight jabs at Peter until he’s literally a split-second from bolting to the bathroom, before relenting. “So, I pulled down his pants, right? Just as a joke,” he’ll start a loud story, gathering the attention of everyone sitting near him. Peter desperately wants to sink a blade into himself, the feeling intensifying as Flash smirks at him, “And my cousin is a grown boy, far past puberty, but his balls haven’t even dropped yet.” The punchline is sent, everyone is laughing or groaning in disgust, as Peter scratches the inside of his sleeve furiously enough to draw blood.

 

* * *

 

Peter thinks he’s hit an all-time low. His mental health has gone to shit, his self-image is awful, his grades are slipping, and he fucks up being a vigilante everytime he goes out.

 

Then Uncle Ben is shot in his apartment, by a mugger that he recognizes. Because _he let him go_.

 

Peter Parker killed Uncle Ben. It might be from an odd domino effect, from not webbing up so and so when he should have, but at the core if it—PETER PARKER KILLED UNCLE BEN.

 

This statement follows him around, blooming in his stomach and growing up into his lungs, choking him from the inside out. He self-harms and cries and throws himself into more and more and more criminals, getting kicked and punched and feeling hollow all the while. He can sense everyone staring at him, at the word _murderer_ flashing in neon letters above his head.

 

Everything feels wrong. Being happy feels like a betrayal to Uncle Ben, being Spider-Man never feels like enough, and he can’t stop remembering when Uncle Ben walked out the door that morning. Smiling with his deep crows feet, short dark hair and receding hairline, the easy “See you later!” flying out of his mouth. And yeah, Peter did see him later. He was just dead when it happened.

 

Coming home to your Uncle’s dead corpse can really put a spin on your perspective. His motive for being Spider-Man changes drastically. Peter isn’t interested in the kind comments, (he knows he doesn’t deserve them), he just wants to help anyone who can get it. Because nobody should feel as terrible as he does—except for him.

 

(Eventually Peter finds the mugger that killed Uncle Ben, but he can’t bring himself to kill him. Peter webs him silently to the alley wall, writes a note, and feels no satisfaction. No closure. Just empty.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS SO DEPRESSING OH MY GOD but peter finally meets tony in the next chapter so look forward to that.


	3. rain-soaked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorta earlier update? but this is a shorter chapter compared to my other ones. Not like dramatically so but.

_I’m sad,_ Peter thinks.

 

The admission doesn’t come easy, only brushing on his consciousness as he blinks away tears during the middle of the night, sleep a distant memory. He scrunches his eyes tightly, repeating the atomic number of every element on the periodic table and wondering why his chest feels so heavy. His blankets are suffocating him, making him feel sweaty and overheated, but when he pulls them away he feels naked to the darkness. He misses Uncle Ben. Radium is number 88. His arm stings from where he cut it an hour earlier.

 

He’s sad. He really fucking sad.

 

He rolls over on his side, and ignores his shaky breathing and wet streaks dripping from the bridge of his nose. Actinium is 89. Peter really has the worst luck, doesn’t he? He must be such a joy to be around! Always on the verge of tears, every movement he makes forced, off-kilter. Uncle Ben’s ghost is enveloping him, Thorium is 90. He’s being swallowed whole—next is Protactinium—but feels empty.

 

May wants Peter to be focused, Ned wants Peter to be happy, Mr. Harrington wants Peter to be a good student, and Flash wants Peter to fall apart. Everyone is trying to get something from him, but they’re slurping a fountain drink that’s only melting ice-cubes. There’s nothing good left in him. It died with that girl on the building, buried into a grave with Uncle Ben. He can’t remember the 92nd element.

 

Peter sniffs, feels under his pillow for a blade.

 

 _(I’m hurting myself because I’m sad,_ he thinks. It should be hard to confess, should have knocked the breath out of him and made him pause the knife from where he was going to cut. Instead, he only pushes down harder, leaving more rivulets of blood to run down the side of his thigh. That becomes the hard thing to swallow—he’s so far gone he isn’t even scared.)

 

The next morning there’s a red stain on the side of his pyjama pants, and he only has enough energy to shove them under his bed.

 

* * *

 

A few short days pass by, a haze of hearing Aunt May cry herself to sleep and Ned rubbing his shoulder. Both in copious amounts. Ned eventually has an intervention, firmly stating “I’m sleeping over at your house tonight.”

 

Peter only nods, not feeling the usual giddiness or anticipation he’d have a month ago. Ned’s face falls, and Peter’s heart hurts.

 

“Peter, you can talk to me about whatever, you know?” Ned offers, face placating and arms open. “Don’t bottle up your feelings. I’m here for you.” He’s nearly pleading at this point, his hands flush against his heart. Someone walks between them, and the moment is broken as the late bell rings.

 

Peter whispers his assent, looking down so he doesn’t have to see the disappointment in Ned’s face.

 

On the subway back to Peter’s apartment, Ned’s shoulder is pressed against his. He should be a comforting presence, a totem in the tumult of Peter’s thoughts. God, Peter _wishes_. He’s never wanted something so desperately in his life—to enjoy the simple comfort of having someone be there for him. But he only feels the mechanical gears of his body moving, the creaking of his bones as he wills himself to continue.

 

That night, with Ned and him sharing the bottom bunk, Peter remains wide awake as Ned drifts off.

 

“Peter, you’re my best friend,” Ned mumbles, voice thick with sleep and eyes half lidded, “I miss you…” he trails off, indecipherable if not for Peter’s keen ear. Peter feels like the worst piece of shit on Earth. The clock flashes. Unbidden, Peter is reminded of the first night he hurt himself, neck aching from sleeping awkwardly and the sharp pain of that broken piece of glass.

 

"I'm sad," Peter whispers, finally, into the rhythmic tick of the hallway clock and the footsteps pacing downstairs. (They have thin walls here). Ned breathes deeply beside him, sound asleep. His ears ring like they’ve got an infection, and he can feel a rock stick in the back of his throat. A tear pricks the corner of Peter's eye and runs down his temple, falling into his ear and muffling his hearing for a sweet split-second. "Like, really fucking sad. Like I hurt myself. A lot. I guess."

 

Ned snores, drowning out the Peter’s uneven breathing and rustling bedsheets. Peter fidgets with the blade under the pillow. _I probably should have moved this,_ Peter thinks, even as he cuts shallowly into his fingerprints, the small wounds closing up within minutes. His healing factor prevents his eyes from being swollen the following morning.

 

* * *

 

While Ned’s mounting worries didn’t exactly help Peter feel better, they did bring to light that Peter needed to be a lot more subtle. He hates the thought of hurting May or Ned anymore than they already are. So he forces himself to be better.

 

Peter is an actor. He’s an expert at blinking away tears, shoving his hands into his pockets, laughing at the right moments and the right amount of eye-crinkling and shoulder-shaking. He can feign shock, sympathy, interest, joy, you name it, Peter’s got it! It’s all here folks, just don’t dig too deeply and you have a Perfectly Normal Peter Parker.

 

He’s mastered the art of it down to the T, enough so that even May is tricked by it. Although, her grief about Ben could be clouding her perception. He tries not to feel like the worst nephew on Earth whenever she asks about his day.

 

So when he sees a really nice car parked on the street by his apartment complex, he considers it good material for small-talk. He might mention it after he greets her in the doorway, the right kind of comment to incite curiosity but not too much that he has to talk about it for longer than 30 seconds.

 

With this plan, Peter comes inside, his side burning from an earlier bruise, smiling distractedly with the offhand comment, “There’s this crazy car parked outside…” He trails off because. What.

 

 _Is that some lookalike Tony Stark?_ The man smirks up at Peter, _no, that’s definitely him._ A burst of awe trembles from his stomach, shot through with “Nice work, kid,” and a beam from Iron Man’s palm. Of course, deep inside Peter knows that he’s just a man. Tony Stark is not some celestial being sent down from heaven to help make Peter feel better. But that knowledge is deep, deep, deep inside. Like, crazy deep. Like, _holy shit Tony Stark is sitting on my couch, of course some deity is smiling down on me_.

 

Peter stumbles through the greetings, smiling genuinely for the first time in what feels like forever. His cheeks ache with the strain, and it still seems unreal. He’s waiting to wake up, except he never does, because _Tony Stark is actually in my apartment._ He itches to text Ned, and his emotions are climbing on top of each other, overflowing.

 

As quickly as Peter sees the man, he realizes that he needs to be playing along with him to hide something from May. He’s too busy being excited about sharing a secret with Mr. Stark to even, well, think about what the secret is. His side throbs again, but his smile doesn’t slip, and he’s too distracted by seeing his idol to let that familiar emptiness wash over him.

 

Then the novelty wears off as Peter stares up at Mr. Stark in his room, and Iron Man Himself starts asking about Spider-Man. The nom de plume dials down the starry-eyed expression, leaving Peter feeling bereft.

 

“Tha-that’s all on YouTube right?” He starts pacing around the room, unable to sit still with the anxiety climbing up his throat, “That’s where you found that? Because you know that’s all fake, that’s all done on the computer?” Peter phrases it as a question, but it’s really a statement. _I’m not Spider-Man_ , he expresses with his eyes, and Mr. Stark looks skyward in response.

 

Peter catches him eyeing the attic, and before he can divert Mr. Starks attention, his suit is dropping from the ceiling and there’s really no going back.

 

The pain in his side blossoms. His secret is being exposed, reminiscent to when Flash pulled down his boxers and gave him that shocked look. Peter wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, falls back onto his bed. He takes a deep breath. _No, this is completely different,_ he corrects himself, _it’s just about Spidey. Tony Stark is nothing like Flash Thompson._

 

“Why’re you doing this?” Mr. Stark asks, cocking his head to the side. Peter studies him for a moment, finally takes note of the purple bruise sunk underneath his right eye. “I’ve got to know, what’s your MO? What gets you out of that twin bed every morning?”

 

Peter bites the inside of his cheek, staring through Mr. Stark as the question really sinks in. “Because…” He fidgets with his fingers, pulling his sleeve as he gets lost in memories of Uncle Ben walking through the apartment, “—because I’ve been me my whole life, and I’ve had these powers for 6 months. I read books, I build computers…” he shifts, thinking of Flash, “and yeah, I would love to play football. But I couldn’t then so I shouldn’t now.”

 

Mr. Stark inclines his head, “Sure. ‘Cause you’re different.”

 

“Exactly,” Peter says, a shot of relief running through him. This is someone who gets it. “But I can’t tell anybody that, so I’m not.” He clenches his jaw, shifts his weight so more pressure is on his hip. “When you can do the things I can,  but you don’t…” Uncle Ben’s red-stained silhouette flashes behind his eyes when he blinks, “and then the bad things happen…” The sound of a tomato hitting cement rings in his ears. “They happen because of you.”

 

It feels cathartic to release all these pent up thoughts to another person who deals with it. The pain of not being able to save someone, the guilt that inches up his neck when he stays home for too many days. It’s all things that Mr. Stark has felt too. Peter scratches his wrist, and wonders if Iron Man also hurts himself. Then he realizes that’s ridiculous, and banishes the thought.

 

“Got a passport?” Mr. Stark asks, and 5 minutes later Peter has a flight to Germany scheduled.

 

* * *

 

The aftermath of meeting Tony Stark feels distinct. He feels–steadier. Less like a misstep on a staircase in the dark, more like a railing he forgot he ever had. There’s something very comforting about having someone else know he’s Spider-Man. It’s not like Peter ever intends to confide with the man about his feelings, but it’s reassuring. Knowing he’s not totally alone.

 

Of course, Peter still clenches his jaw too much and sinks his nails into his palms when he’s nervous, but it feels less like _you need to do this or you will have a breakdown in front of everyone_ and more like _you need to do this or you_ might _have a breakdown in front of everyone._ Slight, but distinct regardless.

  
And now he feels important. Iron Man needs him. Sure, he’s going to fight Captain America— _what the hell—_ but. He’s needed, and that means more to him than anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i skipped a couple lines from the tony nd peter scene bc. Yall have feasted on that too much. i felt like my writing was choppy in this and a tad rushed so.. feedback !! pls!!!! & important message peter is like obviously depressed in this but im hella pushing his feelings 2 the extreme. u dont have to feel this miserable to be depressed, like u can still laugh at ur friends jokes and have happy moments but have depression, so dont compare urself to this zzz its a whump fic for a reason


	4. summerfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorree for taking so long omg i swear i'm not abandoning this and i'll try to be more consistent now

Peter licks the back of his teeth, feels the slight ridges and dips in his gums. His senses are dialed to 11 again, every sensation so intense he can feel his heart thrumming with it. His eyes water, but he blinks away the sting, averting his gaze from the angry glare of the lamp on Mrs. Shannon’s desk. Ned is bouncing his knee beside him, the sound so grating he wonders for a moment if Ned is trying to give Peter a breakdown.

 

“Can you stop that?” Peter hisses, his tone coming out more harsh than he intended. Ned flinches, and the girl in front of them gives Peter a dirty look. “Sorry,” Peter quickly adds, but the damage is done. Ned smiles placatingly, but it’s more stilted than his usual grins. Peter, in typical Peter Parker fashion, feels like the scum of the earth.

 

In the absence of Ned’s fidgeting is the steady tick of the clock, innocuously perched above the whiteboard. Peter huffs through his nose, rubs his forehead to ease his impending headache, and shuts his eyes to block out the blinding lights. He steps on his foot, pressing his heel down firmly until he’s certain a fresh purple bruise is forming. The pain distracts his overstimulated senses, and he finally relaxes in his seat.

 

“You okay?” Ned asks, and Peter gets an unwarranted urge to shush the boy. It’s been so long since Ned wasn’t always worried about him, that Peter questions if such a time ever existed.

 

It’s a shame everything is hellbent on annoying him, because today he’s going to leave Queens for Germany. The lie of an internship at Stark Industries weighs heavy on his tongue throughout the day, all his teachers giving him the same disbelieving look. “Stark Industries…” They echo, but nonetheless mark his absence tomorrow as excused.

 

“I’m fine,” Peter finally responds, lips quirked into a self-deprecating smile, “I’m just nervous about the internship, y’know?” He wishes the white lie didn’t roll off his tongue so nicely, that his inflections were a little less perfectly placed. As it is, Ned doesn’t question his integrity, only giving Peter a blinding smile. Peter’s stomach turns.

 

“I still can’t believe Tony Stark actually personally visited you, holy shit,” Ned whispers, arms thrown back in animation, “and now you’re going all the way to Germany? Not to be gross, but I’m really proud of you.”

 

Peter gives an awkward laugh, his heart clenching as a rush of warmth goes through him. At the core of it, he knows he doesn’t deserve Ned’s affection. Peter wants to be selfish though, and grips onto Ned’s words like they’re a lifeline.

 

“Thanks,” he eventually says, and hopes it doesn’t come out as emotional as he feels.

 

* * *

 

When he makes it to the lunchroom, there are a few other students clustered in small groups, laughing noisily as they wait for their rides home. Liz had messaged Peter earlier, asking if he was free after school to talk—explain his sudden resignation, or whatever. Peter pushes up on his heels, looking over their heads to see Liz blowing a piece of her hair out of her face, cheeks puffed out. It’s… really cute. Peter blushes, thinks _be still my beating heart_ , rather dramatically, and shuffles towards her.

 

“Hey,” he calls, in a faux cool voice, cringing internally at how awkward it sounds. Liz pushes off the pillar she’s leaning on, smiling in that otherworldly pretty way she always does. Peter can barely look at her, feels like he doesn’t deserve that small tilt of her lips.

 

“Hey,” she echoes, tucking a hair behind her ear, “I’m supposed to be at a hoco meeting in, like, 7 minutes.” Peter nods, doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he cracks his knuckles. “Walk with me to room 2241?” She asks, “We can talk as we go.”

 

Peter nods again, not trusting himself to open his mouth. She smiles, eyes crinkled in the way she does when she’s holding in a laugh. Peter’s not sure what’s so funny. He takes a deep breath, psyching himself up for the dreaded conversation. Liz shoulders her backpack, and the two take off, in sync.

 

“So, whatever’s going on with you...” she trails off, and her footsteps slow. Peter meets her pace, shooting her a confused look. Her phone, which was clenched in her hand the entire time, is on it’s lockscreen as she reads a notification.

 

“Peter, you have an internship? With Tony Stark?” She asks, looking at him accusingly. Peter feels his tongue go dry and heavy in his mouth. _Ned must have texted the groupchat,_ he thinks. He doesn’t say anything, flicks his gaze down so he doesn’t have to face the brunt of her betrayed stare.

 

“Yeah,” he finally says, realizing she’s waiting for a response. For his confirmation.

 

He hears her sigh, and they come to a stop in front of room 2241. “Okay, I don’t get it. You have time for an internship, but not to do the decathlon?” He still doesn’t look up. Peter squeezes his knuckles tightly and prays she doesn’t notice how much he’s shaking. “If you don’t like us, you can just say it.”

 

She sounds hurt, which jolts Peter into meeting her gaze. “No, no Liz! I don’t hate you guys. I love the decathlon,” he winces, not sure what excuse to give, “I just. I can’t do it. It’s personal.” He finishes lamely. It’s a terrible reason, but he’s not technically lying.

 

Liz gives him a deadpan look, her mouth tugged into a frown. He wants to smooth out the furrow in her brow, let her relax. Peter feels like complete shit for ruining her mood. He wishes he was better with words, that he could say just the right thing to make her laugh. Instead, he only grinds his teeth. Shifts his weight, stares imploringly.

 

She searches his gaze, and worries her lower lip. He tries his hardest to say with his eyes, _Flash is blackmailing me, I wish I could be in the decathlon_ and, _I am Madly In Love with you._ After an eternity, she sniffs, straightening her back.

 

“I hope everything works out,” she says, quiet, “we’re all worried about you.”

 

Peter smiles reassuringly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

 

* * *

 

The car ride to the hangar is suffocating. Happy Hogan is driving in the front seat, occasionally eyeing Peter through the rearview mirror. His gaze is piercing. Peter crosses and uncrosses his legs, stares out the window as the silence weighs heavy on them.

 

Peter feels an irrational urge to fill the quiet, his ears ringing in the same way white noise would before he got bitten. A few times, he opens his mouth, about to quip something about being an Avenger or ask about Captain America. Each time, his anxiety halts the words, and he tightly swallows them down. Every sentence he thinks sounds too childish, too annoying, so instead he just shuts his mouth and clears his brain.

 

He’s too nervous to say anything beyond _Hello, thank you, where should I put my bags?_ which is not only pathetic, but also just sad. Peter gets a sudden rush of frustration, feeling a visceral rage ball into his stomach. Why can’t he work right? Why is he so useless that he can’t even make small talk?

 

His ears burn, red hot with embarrassment. Vision blurring, Peter blinks rapidly and focuses on pinching the skin on his wrist. The shuddering rage bleeds slowly out of him, and he untenses, relaxing into his seat. He’s fine. It’s just a car ride to a private plane, not a life-changing event. There’s no pressing need for conversation. If anything, Happy would probably be pleased at his silence. Peter can tend to drone on and get on peoples nerves.

 

“We’re here,” Happy cuts into the silence, tone terse and no-nonsense. A sense of giddiness fills Peter, so different from his previous anxiety that he’s slightly dizzy.

 

“Okay,” Peter whispers, cringing internally at his soft tone. He didn’t mean to sound so meek. Happy gives him an odd look and brings the Audi to a park.

 

“Tony’s going to debrief you later, give you some tips, the whole drill. So don’t mess around.” Happy eyes him from the rearview mirror.

 

Peter nods, dropping his head down so he doesn’t have to meet Happy’s gaze. He feels chastised, now, his ears burning so hot it’s painful.

 

Happy sniffs noncommittally, unlocking the car and stepping out. Peter follows suit, hurrying to the back of the car where his suitcase is stored. The trunk unlocks, and Peter lifts his suitcase out, trying his best not to waste any time. Every movement he makes doesn’t feel good enough.

 

“You ready?” Happy asks.

 

Peter nods, and tries to smile.

 

Happy narrows his eyes, but continues on to the airport entrance. “Ever been on a plane?” He asks.

 

Peter shakes his head, “No.” His chest tightens. Not for the first time, he wishes the Parker financial situation was better.

 

“Good, because this is completely different.” Happy states, pushing his sunglasses down. Peter drags his suitcase behind himself and follows behind as Happy leads the way to the hangar.

 

It’s a jarring sight, a collection of glossy airplanes positioned like a magazine shoot. Peter swallows. He feels out of depth—almost wishes he could turn around and say _nevermind, I think I’ll stick to cats in trees._

 

He forces himself to keep walking. In the distance, he can see the Avengers tower, the bold _A_ gleaming in the sunlight. Maybe one day he’ll be able to live there.

 

 _First, I fight Captain America_. He closes his eyes, inhales, and walks up the shiny staircase, carrying his suitcase up with one arm. A few men dressed in neon green vests hover near the wing of the aircraft, pushing some carts or squinting at the entrance to the plane.

 

“Okay, kid—once we get in there, the plane is gonna fly itself to Berlin.” Happy’s back faces Peter, leaving no way for him to gauge the older man’s expression. “First thing: put your stuff away. Second, I go to sleep in a corner and you sit anywhere else.” The air-conditioner _wooshes_ as they ascend the last few steps up. “Don’t talk to me unless you’re in mortal peril. I don’t care if the POTUS is calling me, just let me sleep. You got that?” Happy casts a look over his shoulder, and Peter nods quickly.

 

“Sure thing, Happy!” Peter exclaims, and beams. He hopes it looks natural. Happy wrinkles his nose, and turns back around.

 

As promised, Happy retreats to a corner of the plane and reclines back, closing his eyes. Somehow, he pulled out a neck pillow in the brief moment Peter spent putting his luggage away. Peter gulps, obeys the minimal rules, and sits away from the bodyguard.

 

The plane starts moving on its own, speeding up across the small circular track around the hangar, and then lifting off. Peter looks outside the window at the fast-moving terrain. It’s really cool, the way everything slowly shrinks down below him as the plane rises.

 

Peter swallows. He’s glad there were no metal detectors (or really any security), because he brought a few shaving razors. But maybe there’s gonna be one in Berlin. He quietly prays airport security is shitty in Germany.

 

* * *

 

_Beep!_

 

Peter stands in front of a metal detector, not having walked through yet. His carry-on luggage just got pushed through a belt, underneath what looks like a smaller metal detector. He immediately knows why his luggage didn’t pass security.

 

A German lady in a black bodysuit squints at him. She looks back at her screen, and says something to the person by the metal detector, who immediately glares at him. Peter shrinks down.

 

“Sie haben Waffen im Handgepäck?” He says, voice low.

 

Peter can sound out what he’s saying, something like _weapons in handpack?_ He cringes, and shakes his head. “No, no. Uh, nien?” The man squints more at him.

 

A different lady gets up, and a badge on her hat gleams. Above her pocket is the word POLIZEI. Peter wants to die.

 

“You speak English?” She asks, fluent aside from a slight German accent.

 

Peter nods.

 

“There is a problem with your luggage. Metal inside. From a weapon.” She says.

 

Happy, from across the room, finally seems to notice something is wrong. He eyes the people surrounding Peter, and stands up from where he was waiting.

 

 _Holy shit, I am Going to Kill Myself._ Peter shuts his eyes, and sighs.

 

“What’s going on?” Happy asks. Peter opens his eyes. Happy’s lips are tightened to a thin line, his eyebrows creased in irritation. His gaze is directed at Peter.

 

“Your friend has a weapon in his hand bag.” The man that was behind the detector says. He’s standing beside the women who was behind the computer screen—now they’re in front of his open luggage, and a plastic case of 4 razor blades is opened in his hand. Some of his clothes are strewn out, shitty science puns and all.

 

“Those are for shaving.” Peter weakly says, at the same time the police woman inhales sharply and Happy sighs, “Peter _—_ ”

 

“What?” He defensively asks, shrugging.

 

“This is a weapon,” The man firmly says. The way they keep saying _weapon_ is bothering Peter, because the blades are technically for shaving. It could just a translation thing. Nonetheless, his stomach twists, and he feels exposed.

 

“Throw those away,” Happy dismisses. Peter tries not to react as panic overtakes him.

 

His first instinct to calm himself down is to cut, which he hysterically represses. That’s not even an option anymore. _Shit._

 

The lady tosses the plastic case in a trash can under her computer table, at the same time the man goes around the detector and puts the luggage back on the belt. Happy pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

 _Shit_ , Peter thinks again.

 

* * *

 

Peter goes to wipe his palm across his forehead, but stops himself when he recalls the fabric of his mask. His face is slick with sweat, his dilated eyes narrowing at the grainy cement. It’s a novelty to him that he can’t make out every single indention for once.

 

Mr. Stark’s new suit was doing its job very well. He didn’t exactly get a trial run with it, which dimmed his initial excitement. It was still exhilarating when he realized he had gotten a shiny new high-tech suit in contrast to his shitty thrift-shop hoodie. Peter blinks, and hears his eyes whirr to clink in unison with the action. He holds back a smile. It’s ridiculously intuitive—a perfect pro to dial back his fear at not being fully capable.

 

Now, Peter is hunching behind a truck, ears straining to hear Mr. Stark’s voice. Peter needs to be able to leap out at his cue— _underoos_ , ugh. The suit is a tad muffling his hearing, however. It’s probably in an effort to limit sensory overload, but in the current situation it’s a liability to Peter. He inhales, and watches Mr. Stark’s feet shift closer to Captain from underneath the engine.

 

The muddled voices could be slightly made out as Mr. Stark rose his voice. “—out of patience, underoos!”

 

Peter breathes in and vaults himself over the truck, thwiping his web out to catch Captain’s shield like Mr. Stark instructed. The rest of the exchange flows as smoothly as one would expect.

 

* * *

 

Peter feels like shit. He got beat up. He was helpful for maybe a split second

 

_“Guys! I have an idea? I-I can web up the big dude’s legs to make him trip.”_

 

_“...Spidey, that’s a good plan.”_

 

_“Yeah!” A pause, “Like in Star Wars.”_

 

_“Kid, you sounded ingenious at first but you ruined it.”_

 

But he fucking lost his chance by getting smacked like fly. By—get this—Ant-Man. Also, Captain America completely overpowered him. He feels like a nuisance—like he wasted everyone’s time. Mr. Stark even debriefed him and gave him tips on Cap’s weak spots. And Captain had no idea Peter was coming. But he still lost, because he can’t do anything right.

 

That’s the rub, isn’t it? No matter how many opportunities pass his way, he loses them. He’s never good enough. The decathlon? Gone. Flash is just an excuse. He could have argued more it he really wanted to stay. Being Spider-Man? Useless if he can’t even save his own family. And now, this: a billionaire approaches him. Everything is on his side to succeed. And he still fails.

 

Peter falls backward onto his hotel bed, the blankets puffing up around him. _I’m worthless_ , he thinks. He blankly stares at the wall, where green striped wallpaper decorates the bathroom door.

 

Green.

 

Green is the color of his box opener. Of his pencil sharpener. Of the handle of his serrated blade.

 

Peter wishes he could hurt himself more. His bruises aren’t enough to pay back for what little he’s contributed. He deserves to fucking hurt.

 

Peter sharply inhales, and closes his eyes to block out his sight.

 

* * *

 

The car ride is quiet, again. This time, it’s accompanied by Mr. Stark. Which only makes Peter feel the tension more. He wonders if everyone feels awkward, or if he’s just weird.

 

Happy is driving them to Peter’s apartment, before presumably taking himself and Mr. Stark to the Avengers tower.

 

Peter shift self-consciously closer to the door. He stares steadily outside the window to avoid making eye-contact. He doesn’t want to embarrass himself by talking. _I was annoying during the fight_ , he tells himself. He talks too much. Mr. Stark was frustrated with him, he could tell.

 

He really wants to cut himself.

 

Two days clean is a fucking record. He can’t stop thinking about pressing a blade into his skin. Everytime he remembers that fight—how useless he was—his stomach turns. All he can picture is the cathartic sight of blood running down his arm. The urge gets so bad Peter is shocked he hasn’t just pounded his skull into the wall already. He wonders if it’s possible to be addicted to self-harm.

 

Peter bites his tongue as hard as he can by snapping his jaw shut while the tip of his tongue rests on his lower row of teeth. This move is risky, because it’s easy for it to make a loud clinking noise and alert everyone of what he’s doing.

 

Which, of course, it does. His teeth clack together in the same motion that probably scrapes a taste-bud off. He doesn’t even flinch.

 

Mr. Stark asks, “You good?”

 

“Yeah. Just bit my tongue,” Peter responds. He doesn’t turn his head to face the man, but eyes him from his peripheral vision. Without his sensory-deprivation mask, he can actually be sneaky again. He feels a little smug. Then he feels disgusted by himself. It’s always a rollercoaster in Peter’s brain. _Hey, by the way, I hate you!_ He tells himself, and squeezes his eyes shut. His arm itches.

 

“You know, Pete,” Mr. Stark starts. His shirt rustles as if he’s leaning forward. Peter turns his head to fully address the man. “If you need some help, or someone to talk to, you can always go to Happy or me?” He takes off his tinted glasses as he talks, his eyes far too open and understanding.

 

Peter feels an overwhelming urge to cry overtake him. His chin quivers, and he wills himself to swallow down the tears. A lump forms in his throat. It’s a little hard to breathe.

 

“Yeah—yeah, okay,” Peter says, his voice a little higher than normal. It’s so obvious he’s touched by the words. Peter feels like a loser. He inhales deeply.

 

“Alright,” Mr. Stark leans more towards Peter. “Let’s go out and get the suit. I’ll walk you in.”

 

Mr. Stark reaches across Peter to the door on his left. Unbidden, Peter jolts backwards, his back pressing against the cool leather and his pulse spiking up. Mr. Stark gives him a weird look.

 

“I’m just grabbing the door for you, no need to go all David Clemens on me.” He says, holding his arms up in surrender.

 

Peter’s ears burn hot. He exhales, “Sorry, Mr. Stark.”

 

Peter goes to unbuckle his seatbelt, cursing himself for being so touchy. Mr. Stark was trying to do a nice thing and, like usual, he fucked it up. He kinda wants to disappear. Maybe turning invisible is part of his spider DNA if he wills it enough.

 

“C’mon, bud,” Mr. Stark ushers, dispelling Peter’s thoughts.

 

They exit the car from opposite doors, Happy nodding at Mr. Stark as he leaves. Peter hurries to the back of the car. Again, he feels compelled to not waste any time, and rushes so much it startles Mr. Stark into backing up.

 

“Woah there, kiddo!” He exclaims, arms thrown up. Peter stops where he’s holding both his personal luggage and Mr. Stark’s Spider-Man suitcase.

 

“Sorry, sir,” Peter says, ducking his head. He shuffles forward at a more reasonable pace to Mr. Stark. Peter holds out the suitcase for the older man.

 

Mr. Stark picks it up, and they ascend up the curb to his apartment building. A passerby glances up at them, before doing a double-take and fumbling for his phone. The cold chill of the night bites Peter’s exposed arms unpleasantly, and he abruptly wishes he could freeze to death out here.

 

“Thanks for taking me here, a-and for letting me go to Germany,” Peter tries his hardest to infuse his gratefulness into his words, but doesn’t look up at the man yet. He kicks some gravel across the pavement. “I’m sorry I didn’t help that much—also thanks for the. Uh. For letting me use your suit.”

 

Mr. Stark is quiet for a moment, and then says, “It’s not my suit,” Peter looks up in confusion, and sees Mr. Stark staring down at him with a slight frown, “it’s yours. It’s been yours since I gave it to you at the hotel.”

 

Peter’s mouth falls into a small ‘o’. “Thank you!” he says loudly, baffled and grateful. “Er, I mean, thank you so much,” he amends more quietly.

 

Mr. Stark sighs, and hands him the suitcase. “You need more confidence, kid. You’re better than you give yourself credit for.”

 

Peter wants to protest, but swallows it down. It’s impolite to not accept a compliment, and he doesn’t want to come across as rude to Mr. Stark.

 

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter and next chapter is more building for peter's mindset and the ppl around him but the more interesting shit happens in ch. 6 :)


	5. bottom step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh early updatw? Yah. anyways i feel bad abt hyping up ch. 6 like now i feel like it wont be as good as ur all expecting dot dot dot also TW !!! Graphic suicide and self harm descriptions

Peter spins, facing the band office with all the excitement of a dying man. He’s not particularly eager to be facing the issue of quitting marching band. But his responsibility to protect Queens and live up to Mr. Stark’s expectations urges him on, so he forces himself to take a step forward.

 

Mr. Simons exits his room in unison with Peter’s stilted movement, nearly causing a collision. Peter takes an abrupt step back, quickly muttering an apology as he wills his ears to stop burning. The band director smiles, waving him off, and hesitates for a moment.

 

“I got an internship with Tony Stark,” Peter hastens. He lowers his voice, more wary with his next admission, “I’m leaving band. I don’t have time to practice anymore.”

 

Mr. Simons’ eyebrows shoot up, and oddly he makes eye-contact with someone behind Peter. Sharing an incredulous look. Peter, baffled, cranes his neck around. Of course, walking towards them from about three feet away, is Flash Thompson.

 

Flash is a caricature of Mr. Simons’ face, wide eyes and lifted brows so exaggerated it looks cartoonish. Peter’s stomach clenches. He grinds his teeth, unwilling to show the bully how much his presence affects him. It doesn’t seem to work so well though, given Flash’s twitching lips.

 

“Internship?” Mr. Simons repeats, eyes darting between Peter and Flash as if to say _can you believe this?_ , “Peter, everyone and his mother knows Tony Stark doesn’t have interns. If you want to quit, at least make a believable excuse.” He chastises, shaking his head in disappointment. Peter’s heart drops.

 

“Mr. Simons, I swear this is a real internship,” he pleads, emphatic with his words,  “I can get Mr. Stark to confirm it.” That, he wasn’t sure of. The assurance gives him more credibility though, so he doesn’t correct himself.

 

“Hey, Parker, don’t belittle your teacher,” Flash pipes up, an egotistical smirk curling on his lips. His arms are crossed, and despite Flash being two inches shorter than Peter, it feels like he’s towering over him. “Just say you’re _cutting_ practice.”

 

Peter flinches, before hardening. “What are you even doing here?” he bites, his heart beating noisily, “You aren’t even in band.”

 

Mr. Simons clicks his tongue, “Hate to say it Thompson, but Peter has a point. You got a pass?” He asks, challenging. Flash scoffs, his left hand diving to his back pocket and pulling out a crumpled yellow sticky-note.

 

As Flash and Mr. Simons debate the legitimacy of the note, Peter swallows, walking down the terraced aisles until he reaches the double doors. His pulse is thumping so quick he wonders if it’s visible in his neck, fluttering and fast. He wrings his wrist, squeezes a bruise from where he smacked a wall, and breathes in.

 

Now to drop out of robotics lab.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s chest feels heavy. He’s so fucking tired—he’s left everything he used to care so much about. He knows he’s not number one of his year anymore. He’s not even eligible for it. It’s a written requirement to participate in two extracurriculars before your GPA even gets compared to anyone else’s.

 

The worst part of it all is everyone’s disappointment. It’s palpable, thick enough that it gets hard for him to breathe. The room weighs down on him, more than the truck Captain America threw. Peter tries to breathe in through his nose, and exhale through his mouth. _Nobody likes you,_ he thinks.

 

He wants to cry. It’s so weird, that these things that meant so much to him before hardly even matter. Nothing fucking matters anymore. His whole life had been leading up to high-school, his obsession with science and learning culminating into a full-ride to MSST. The best high-school in Queens.

 

Peter is a sophomore. He’s been here one year and a half, and he’s already lost his motivation. He’s so tired. He’s exhausted. It feels like waves are crashing down in his ears, washing out everything around him.

 

A small part of him wants to go back so bad. He wishes he was still 14 years old, braces and glasses and 1st place in the science fair. He misses it so deeply it scares him.

 

More than that, he needs to help others. These powers—they’re a gift. What right does he have to waste them? He’s selfish for missing the old days. He was useless then. He’s better now.

 

He’s so tired.

 

* * *

 

“Peter, can we talk?” Michelle asks, voice thick.

 

Peter is in the library, listlessly eyeing his notebook. He’s re-read the same sentence ten times now. _At point 1, the mass is at rest and not accelerating towards or away from the pivot point._ He closes his eyes, and wonders when something so easy to him before is lost on him now.

 

“Sure,” Peter finally says. He goes to scoot back in his seat, but Michelle waves him off. She goes across from him and sets down her book, _The Catcher in the Rye._

 

“You remind me of Holden,” she says, following his gaze. Peter blinks. “You’re both about to go fucking insane with depression.”

 

Peter sucks in a breath, and blinks rapidly to focus his eyes on her. The room spins a little. His pulse thrums and beats and pounds inside of him, so quick he feels like a hummingbird.

 

“What do you mean?” He asks. He tries to sound casual, and not like he regularly swings into buildings because he likes the way his jaw smacks together and the pain rattling down his spine.

 

“Don’t play dumb,” Michelle says, “You’re in my English class. We just talked about Holden fantasizing about a bullet in his guts.” Peter pretends like he knows what she’s talking about. “And—not to alarm you—but you’re 15 like Holden and I’m pretty sure you’re the saddest person in this school. And _I_ go here.” Michelle’s jaw tenses and untenses, in a way he recognizes because he does it too.

 

Peter doesn’t say anything, but looks down at his lap so he doesn’t have to watch her brown eyes. It’s too intense. He can’t lie while looking into someone’s eyes like that.

 

“Look,” she continues, clearly on some kind of emotional rampage, “I have SAD. I can recognize the signs of someone who’s mentally ill. And, I’m 99% sure you have some form of depression and anxiety.” Peter ignores the way his breath hitches. She keeps saying that word. He hates it. “You literally always look like you’re on the verge of a panic attack and your hand starts shaking whenever Ned asks about your day.”

 

“My hand doesn’t—” Peter protests, but trails off at the look she gives. He draws his eyes back down to his lap. “I swear I’m not depressed.”

 

“Peter, listen,” Michelle says, her voice even quieter than it was before. Her voice was so soft the entire time, like she didn’t want to startle him. Or maybe because they’re in a library. “Peter.” She says again.

 

Peter looks up hesitantly. She’s worrying her lower lip, and her arms are splayed out in front of her as she leans forward.

 

“ _Peter_ ,” she whispers, “if you ever need someone to talk to or anything. I guess I could be there. But I hope you can get professional help.”

 

Peter’s eyes sting—he always gets so moved when people offer their time for him lately. It’s embarrassing. It’s not even a big deal. “ _Th-_ anks,” Peter chokes back, as quietly as he can.

 

He doesn’t accept her offer.

 

* * *

 

May spins her fork in the spaghetti in front of her, the cold limp pasta twisting and untwisting as she holds it up to her eye-line.

 

“Think this is any good?” She asks. Her glasses slide down her nose a little, and her lips twist into a little half-smirk as she pushes them back up with the base of her palm.

 

Peter pokes it with his fork. It doesn’t move. He thinks his plate is still too frozen.

 

“Looks great,” Peter says. He’s not really thinking straight, otherwise he might have read the atmosphere better.

 

Aunt May laughs, but it dies off a split second after. “Wait—you’re being serious. Are you okay?” She asks. The quiet music she put on feels like it’s silenced by the sudden tension. Peter grinds his teeth.

 

“I’m good. I had a long day at school, I guess.” He shrugs, “I’m just a little tired.” He’s exhausted, actually, and a part of him fantasizes about sleeping for eternity.

 

May sucks in a breath through her teeth. “Okay, how about I order some Thai and we go to bed early after dinner?” Her nails drum softly against the table.

 

“Sure,” Peter says.

 

A beat passes, and then, “Peter.” Aunt May says. People have been saying his name a lot like that lately, like _Pete_ r. Voice drawn out and soft. Low and sensitive. “You normally love Thai. Are you really okay, bud?”

 

Peter’s stomach twists. He wonders if he can still get sick after getting the spider-bite. “Yeah, I’m fine!” He forces a laugh, “I don’t know, it’s just the internship and all. I feel a little overwhelmed.” He hopes she doesn’t notice the way his voice hitches on the word ‘little’. The whole lying shtick is getting harder.

 

Aunt May’s chair squeaks as she gets up, and she walks around the table to stand behind him. “Oh, Peter,” She whispers, “you know I love you, right?” She combs her finger through his hair, and he melts into it.

 

For an abrupt moment, he wants to tell her everything. How hopeless he feels as everything spirals out of control. How hurting himself started out all experimental, but now it’s the only way he can feel anything but sad.

 

Instead, he closes his eyes and enjoys the comfort she gives. “I love you too,” he mumbles. His nose is a little congested, and is probably tinged pink. He swallows, and his throat gets blocked up. He knows why— _the expansion of the glottis in and of itself does not create a lumpy feeling, until one tries to swallow_ —but tries to gulp it down anyways.

 

“ _Pete_ r,” she says under her breath, all shaky. He knows he wasn’t supposed to hear it. He feels invasive and guilty.

 

He grinds his teeth and pinches the skin on his wrist. It’s practically a Pavlovian response at this point. Feel stressed? Time to hurt!

 

“You can always talk to me,” she says, “I hope you know that. If things are ever rough in school or anything, I can be here for you,” she hesitates, “I know you used to go to Ben for that stuff. But I’m here too.” Her voice is a little watery, like she’s trying her best to sound strong.

 

Peter can’t burden her with his feelings. She’s going through so much already. He doesn’t want to hurt her, or Ned, or Michelle, or even Tony Stark. They deserve better. Besides, he’s coping in his own way.

 

“Okay,” Peter whispers, and sniffles.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter likes taking showers.

  
  
He likes to turn the faucet to its highest setting, so hot until it's near unbearable. Then he stands under the running water, lets the the droplets run down his back like round needles. His skin turns irritated, pink, and any recent cuts sting so intensely it's hard to not flinch away.

  
  
Peter has a razorblade hidden under some men's Neutrogena in the mirror cabinet. So he takes it out everyday before his shower, pinching it between his thumb and pointer finger. The blade faces his thumb. It's more painful holding it that way.

  
  
His favorite time to self-harm is in the shower, because the blood washes away and doesn't dry and clot grossly. It bleeds out, runny red streaks criss-crossing his arms and legs, diluted by the streams of water.

 

Seeing his blood go down the drain is morbidly fascinating. Satisfying. He always feels cleaner.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Happy,” it’s three weeks post-Captain America fight. “You haven’t been responding to my messages, which I find hilarious after Mr. Stark said I could talk to you if I needed to.” He cringes at his words, immediately regretting them. “Which is fine! I don’t want to bother you! Sorry!” He keeps talking so loud, he’s pretty sure someone is gonna complain. “Sorry,” he says again quieter. “Uh, patrol today was pretty boring. I helped this guy carry some groceries. And I helped a mom find her kid.” The static of the microphone in his phone feels mocking. “Sorry for lashing out. Uh. Peter Parker, copy.” He still doesn’t know how to end messages.

 

He hangs up on the voicemail, and lies backwards on the building. Peter feels a duty to be on rooftops. After he failed that woman, he should be attentive to others. Not make the same mistake again.

 

Peter closes his eyes and hears the splatting noise on repeat. He can’t remember if her head cracked open first or if he heard her spine snap. He feels like shit for it. How does someone forget something like that? He inhales, and it’s a little shuddery.

 

His phone vibrates where its laying, and he sits up fast, his heartbeat going _bum, bum, bumbum_.

 

It’s a call from a number he doesn’t have saved. Peter sighs, and ends the call. It’s probably just some spam.

 

It immediately starts buzzing again, _zz, zzz, zzzz_ , in tune with his heart. Peter narrows his eyes. He waits a beat, tries to gauge how persistent this person is. His phone seems almost upset with him. _Zzz_!

 

Peter reluctantly accepts the call and puts it to his ear.

 

“Hello?” Peter asks.

 

“Hey, kid,” It’s Mr. Stark. _???!_ , Peter thinks in his head. Mr. Stark sounds distant, like he’s talking to him on speaker. “I thought you were gonna ignore me again.”

 

“Sorry!” He says, in a loud whisper. He doesn’t know why he’s whispering. Why is Tony Stark calling him?

 

“It’s fine,” Mr. Stark says, in a dismissive voice, “you know, kid, for being such a nervous wreck you sure have a temper.”

 

Peter flinches. “I—”

 

“Yeah, I don’t want to hear it. Kidding.” Something clings in the background. “Sorry about the whole not responding thing. Happy listens to the voicemails and reads the messages. They’re all forwarded to me.” A buzzing noise filters into the speaker. “When I said we’re here if you need someone to talk to, I didn’t mean vigilante antics. I kind of meant along the lines of stress and PTSD. You know, the whole heroic self-sacrificial shit.” He pauses. “Pretend I didn’t say that. Pretty sure Auntie would kill me if I swore around her precious child.”

 

“It’s fine,” Peter eventually says, overwhelmed. “I—PTSD and stress? I don’t think I have any of that… heroic self-sacrificial stuff.”

 

Mr. Stark is quiet for a second, and then, “Kid, it comes with the job. All of the Avengers—er, ex-Avengers—have a guilt complex bigger than my ego.”

 

“Okay,” Peter says. “Okay, sorry for uh. Lashing out.”

 

“Save this number on your phone and use it for emergencies,” Mr. Stark responds. He doesn’t acknowledge the apology.

 

“Okay,” Peter says for the third time. He feels annoying. “Got it. Thank you?” He didn’t mean to make it sound questioning, but he’s just so confused. Why does Mr. Stark care about him when he doesn’t even know him?

 

“Sure, kid. I gotta go do some workshop things, but remember what I said, alright?” He sounds like a dad.

 

“Yeah, I will,” Peter says, already certain he's not going to bother Mr. Stark with his problems.

 

The line goes silent.

 

  
_What just happened_ , Peter mouths to the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im reading catcher in the rue for eng and ithink its influencing my voice. anyways i altered a lotta dis from the outline i have. So like this is more interestingi gues. like origiinally may was gonna be more confrontational than michelle & happy hogan was supposed to be attentive in the messages but i just replaced ir with that call from tony. abut i think its btter dis way. Also i tried ti make tony witty but i fthink i went overboard lmk if its good :) Also peter was supposed to have a breakdown at the end but i took it out bc i thjnk this chapter is already cry worthy enough


	6. oh no

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for da wait.

When Peter sees Michelle in the hallways, he averts his gaze. It’s subconscious, and he always regrets it right afterwards. But at that point he can’t draw his gaze back, because that would be like doing a double-take—which is ruder than avoiding eye-contact altogether. At least, he thinks. The whole rules of manners have been a little lost on him lately.

 

Peter used to be that irritating polite kid that always smiled in the hallways. The crucial time to do it was when the people thinned out, and it was only him and 3 or 4 others—he needed to acknowledge them. It was the nice thing to do. A little smile, a wave, maybe a _Good morning!_ if the person smiles back.

 

Now, he’s started a habit of fixating his eyes downward. If he looks up too much, he gets overwhelmed. He always feels like everyone is laughing at him. It’s irrational—except it’s really not? Because nine times out of ten, Flash and some of his other rich friends are getting a kick out of him. He’s sure of it. His super-hearing can pick up the click of their tongues as he walks past, the way they step backwards as if the very air around him is toxic.

 

He ignores Michelle, because he can’t stop thinking about the intervention she gave him. He’s so embarrassed. Peter is so transparent about his feelings that she felt the need to help him. He’s a nuisance, and he doesn’t want to be; that’s why Peter can’t help but shrink away when he sees her. A part of him resents her for butting into something so personal, for intruding herself into his life.

 

Another part, a greater part, is happy about it. As fucked-up as it is, he likes when people are worried about him. It shows they care.

 

Eventually, she’s going to lose interest. He knows it, knows it as well as Ned’s glossy eyes when Peter talks about stoichiometry, sees it in May’s distant _mhm…_ from the kitchen. Everyone gets tired of him. Michelle will too. It’s basically the rite of passage to being part of Peter’s life. If Peter doesn’t like you more than you like him, are you really using him the right way?

 

* * *

 

“Do you have a box-opener?” Ned mumbles, his blunt nails picking at the crease of where the duct-tape begins. His tongue is poked out in concentration.

 

Peter tries to reel in his panic at the words. He blinks, and sees himself making cross-hatches in his arms, and blinks again to clear the abrupt image.

 

“Yeah,” Peter says.

 

They’re building the lego Millenium Falcon. It’s very exciting. Ned found it in a thrift store, which Peter thinks is a little too good to be true—emphasized by how securely it was wrapped shut.

 

Peter gets up from where they’re seated—at the foot of his bed, with his messy clothes shoved aside near his closet. He takes a deep breath in, and out, and in, and out, as he makes his way over to his cluttered desk. His ancient computer’s screen is black, so he makes sure to avoid his reflection as he opens the first drawer on the right.

 

Peter makes a show of looking around, loudly pushing pencils and books aside. Ned’s thin nails scrape against the shiny cardboard, louder than Peter’s heartbeat. Ned is so loud, in fact, Peter is shocked that May hasn’t come in demanding what all the ruckus is.

 

 _Skrr_ , his nails scrape, _SKRR_. Peter swallows. He’s going crazy. It’s just his affected hearing.

 

“You know—I think I—got it,” Ned sucks in a breath.

 

Peter spins. Ned is flushed, the cardboard straining as he tries to force it open with the tape still on. Peter drops down to a squat and eyes it curiously.

 

“Let me,” he offers, without thinking.

 

Ned slides the box to him, eyes narrowed at it. Peter rubs his fingers along the frayed edge of the silver tape, the thin sticky strings clinging to the bright white _16+_. Peter eyes the lego count— _10179._

 

He tucks the flat edge of his thumb under an uncovered fissure, and tries his best to be gentle.

 

The box rips violently, spilling out an unpacked sea of lego pieces. A few bounce innocently under his bed, leaving Ned to gape at the sudden mess.

 

“Shit,” Peter says.

 

“How did you do that?” Ned asks in a reverent whisper. Peter tries to look casual.

 

“I’ve been working out.” Peter replies. He shifts, uncomfortable, and gently sets down the torn box. A few more blocks come tumbling out.

 

Ned purses his lip, “Wait, why are you still so slow in gym?” He doesn’t sound accusing, just confused.

 

Peter shrugs. “Wanna keep it on the DL. I don’t like the extra work Coach Wilson gives the other kids.” He’s lying, and he’s sure it’s obvious given Ned’s lost face.

 

Nonetheless, Ned doesn’t question him, and returns his gaze to the scattered lego blocks. They dot the ground dangerously. Peter wants to jump into and run across the piles, so he can feel them bite bruises into the balls of his feet.

 

Ned leans forward to gather a few pieces, and Peter can see all his pores, the shiny dots of sweat above his brow, a small pimple on his chin. Small, skinny hairs whisker above his lip and along his cheeks.

 

“Dude, help me.” Ned says, and turns his head to the left, obscuring his face from view. Peter blinks, and reaches down to push together a pile of round, grey pieces.

 

They sit in silence for a minute, piling everything together and picking up pieces that bounced to who-knows-where. Peter feels like there definitely aren't 10,179 legos like the box promised.

 

“Ew, why do you have old pyjamas down here?” Ned asks.

 

Peter can feel heart stop.

 

His pyjama pants. The ones he bled all over. He knows he shoved them down there, where Ned can probably see the red-brown stains all along the sides. He holds his breath, and watches Ned’s arm extend across the carpet.

 

He pulls out a pile of clothes. At first, all Peter can see is red, and thinks _Holy shit I bled a lot._ Then he sees the blue, the black spider stamp. And he realizes.

 

“YOU’RE SPIDER-MAN?” Ned’s voice is way too loud.

 

“Shhh!” Peter hisses, jumping forward. A hysterical panic rises in his chest. “Of course I’m not Spider-Man!” He bites, feeling a little faint.

 

Ned looks incredulously back and forth between the suit and Peter.

 

“I swear, I’m not!” He pleads, and grabs the pile of clothes out of Ned’s hands. “This—This is just a costume!” He gestures frantically at the spider stamp, “Do you think Spider-Man would save people in a hoodie?”

 

“Yes!” Ned exclaims, “Because he literally did! There’s videos of it!” Peter tries not to wince. “ _Pete_ r…” Ned says, eyes big.

 

Peter sucks in a breath, and leans back. His nose stings. He blinks rapidly, as blood rushes in his ears, his heart going to quick he can feel it tremble against his ribs.

 

“Yeah,” Peter finally says, all quiet. “I’m Spider-Man.” He sniffs, and bows his head to hide his eyes. Fuck, he’s actually about to cry. The world blurs dangerously, and his nose stings with more urgency.

 

Ned is quiet for a second, and then says, “Bro…” high-pitched and breathless.

 

Peter looks up beneath his lashes. Ned has his hands splayed in front of him, leaning forward so much he looks like he might topple over.

 

“You have to tell me everything.” He says.

 

Peter promptly bursts into tears.

 

There’s a pause, filled by Ned gasping in surprise.

 

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Ned hastens. Peter sucks in a shaky breath. _Why am I crying? Why the fuck can’t I stop crying?_

 

“No, it’s fine—I—I just, I don’t know.” He swallows a sob, the stream of tears making it impossible to discern Ned’s expression. “I’m just tired.” His shaking hands betray him. “Maybe you should go.”

 

Ned sucks in a breath, seemingly hurt by the demand. Peter’s heart trembles with guilt. “Okay—okay, just please—talk to me?” Ned says. He sounds a little choked up, too. “…Eventually? We’re best friends. If you ever need someone, I’m your guy in the chair.” Peter can hear the waver in his tone, which only spurs him on to cry harder.

 

“Okay.” Peter says, desperately wiping his face, his hands slick and wet with tears. His chest feels tight, to the point that it’s unbearable, and an anxious nauseating curl twists in his stomach. His ears ring as Ned rises up, the door creaking as he goes.

 

The second Ned leaves the room, Peter chokes out a sob. He bites down on his hand to muffle the noise, but he knows he’s too late. He can hear Ned’s sharp inhale by his bedroom door, and Peter tries to breathe in around his choked cries. He hates himself for this—not for the embarrassment, or for the vulnerability. He hates himself for forcing it onto Ned, for making the poor kid feel obligated to help Peter.

 

A hot, acidic taste burns the back of his throat. Peter jolts upwards, his arm smacking against his door frame as he rushes to the bathroom. Peter can barely spare a thought of whether or not Ned is gone yet. The hot, sour fluid overwhelms his senses as he drops down to the toilet bowl, pale hands in a shaking death-grip on the rim. Everything burns. The base of his stomach, his throat, his ears, the soles of his feet, the pads of his fingers. More tears roll down.

 

The barf and mucus lurch out, splattering into the toilet bowl at an intensity that leaves flecks of his own sick on his cheek and forehead. Peter rests his forehead on the bowl after he’s done, his nausea subsiding, merely leaving his shuddering, crying body.

 

* * *

 

“So, you had an anxiety attack in front of your best friend,” Captain America says in Peter’s head. He is staring imploring at a camera. “Pretend it never happened, and maybe he’ll conveniently forget.” The war criminal advises, eyes sage.

 

Peter groans, turning his body sideways as he lays on his bed. His stomach swoops at the motion. Peter clenches his fist into the fabric of his shirt, bunching it up around his stomach. He wants to close his eyes, sleep for so long that he can wake up an amnesiac. Uncle Ben will be alive again, and Spider-Man will be dead.

 

His stomach turns again, and he can’t help the way his dry eyes water again. He can’t stop thinking about Ned’s stricken face. _What have I done?_ The question is so heavily packed he isn’t sure where to begin. The room spins, the world a globe smacked too quickly, turning and turning and turning.

 

Peter shuts his eyes. The room keeps spinning behind his eyelids, making him dizzy. His bed dips in.

 

Peter’s eyes shoot open, and he scurries back on his bed. May is staring at him, bewildered, her hand hovering in the air. “May?” He croaks, unhelpfully. His back feels sticky with sweat, and his face is burning.

 

“Are you alright?” She asks, her eyes shining a little. She seems to have recovered from her surprise. “Ned told me you weren’t feeling too hot. Do you want to stay home from school tomorrow?” She asks, soft.

 

Again, Peter can’t help the way his eyes well up in tears, streaming down his face without abandon. He shudders, and ducks his face into his hands. He can’t look at May.

 

“Oh, _Pete_ r,” she says, breathless. Her arms envelop him in a warm embrace. He can’t help but cry harder at the kind gesture. “Talk to me, okay? Let me know what’s going on. C’mon.” She sounds a little desperate. Bitterly, he thinks it ruins the moment.

 

Suddenly, Peter feels so mad. He sucks in a breath, feels it clank into his teeth and push through his mucus-clogged throat, dissolve into his lungs like any good solute should. Tears start stinging his face in frustration instead of distress.

 

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he says, and May flinches back. He waxes on, undeterred, “There’s nothing going on! Uncle Ben wouldn’t have…” He trails off. May looks stricken.

 

She’s crying now, too, and they’re both a gross mess of emotions and repressed feelings, boiling on for months on end. This isn’t the first time they’ve acknowledged Ben’s death— _an inappropriately sunny day, Peter’s face flushing in the impermeable heat beating down on him, skin sticking to dark clothes as he stares listlessly, the loud cries of someone beside him_ —but it’s the first time his absence drew complaint out of Peter.

 

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, quietly.

 

Aunt May sniffs, rubbing her eyes underneath her thick-rimmed glasses. “I’m sorry too, kiddo. I know it’s been hard for you. I _know_.” She says, firm despite her watery eyes.

 

“But you don’t,” Peter says, a little more quiet, a little more tired.

 

She blinks at him, and sniffs again.

 

“Ever since Ben… I don’t know.” He trails off, staring distantly through Aunt May. “Ever since he passed…” he licks his lips. _That word isn’t right_ , Peter thinks. “Ever since Ben died. I can’t stop thinking about—if I were to…” He focuses on May now, and realizes he’s said too much.

 

She’s crying again now, her face anguished, a crease between her eyebrows and lips drawn into a shaking frown. “No, no, no, no.” She’s a broken record. “Peter—my baby— _Pete_ r. I love you. You can’t just…!” Her face is flushed, and she buries it into her hands. “ _Pete_ r!” She wails.

 

Peter feels frozen. His heart clenches, and he thinks, _this is why I shouldn’t have said anything. She’s already so stressed. I’m the worst nephew on the planet._ His sensitive eyes spill more tears, stinging his rubbed raw cheeks.

 

Peter sucks in one of those shaky, whiney breathes, and bites down on his tongue to shut himself up. _For once, do something right_ , he tells himself. _For once, be strong for May. Stop being a nuisance._

 

He breathes in slowly, and circles his arms around Aunt May for another warm hug. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m not going to die. I swear. I’m okay.”

 

She shudders as he says _die_ but relaxes at his reassurance. May lifts up from the hug, and gently touches his hair. “I love you,” she says again. Her eyes are red, her lipstick, her cheeks, her nose. Her eyes are still running hot, wet tears down her face, her mascara a black rim under her eyes. “I don’t want you to go. Never think of yourself that way again, okay?”

  
Peter knows it, knows from the chaffing of his pants on his thigh, from the red-stained pyjamas under his bed, from _hey, Parker, just say you’re cutting practice,_ that he’s lying as he says “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited the outline a fuckton i took out two big parts and moved them to next chapter and i added the Fuckload of tearz.. also i feel like this is short but its kinda the same length as the other cphaters idk 🥺 give me feedback pls..


	7. skiptracing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i think i should note chapter titles have nothing to do w the chapter its just titles of songs i think sound cool. Also the title of this fic probably has some biblical reference but i also just thought it sounded xool sorry to burst any symbolism bubbles
> 
> suicide ideation tw

 

Peter misses the next day of school, which is granted pretty reasonable considering how distressing last night had been. He’s feeling pretty sick, and not just in the mental sense. _If I was just sad, I could’ve gone,_ he thinks. But he has a headache, and his stomach hasn’t stopped turning, so it’s a deserved rest.

 

His wrist stings where he’s scratched it red. The skin is peeling a little. It’s kinda gross. Peter hurts a little bit everywhere, right now, partially—well, mostly—of his own doing.

 

Peter lurches forward at a particularly sharp pang in his stomach, dry heaving over the trash-can by his bed. He spares a longing thought to May, who is currently working her ass off at the hospital. As his throat burns and eyes water, he thinks, _what have I done to myself?_

 

The tears spill out, a combination of pain and overwrought emotions. He’s hurt himself, irrevocably damaged his skin in thin scars, denies himself comfort when offered, and generally goes out of his way to make things harder for himself. Peter thinks it’s been months since he hasn’t been hurting somewhere on his body.

 

It’s his fault. This is the hard thing to swallow. He can’t pit the blame on Flash, or the education system, or the death of Uncle Ben. This is all Peter’s doing. The culprit of a crime against his own wellbeing.

 

Peter has been very tired, for a very long time. Giving up never felt so tempting.

 

 _I love you, I don’t want you to go,_ Aunt May says in his head.

 

 _Do you love me?_ Peter asks back. _If you love me, why haven’t you noticed how badly I wish I was dead? If you love me, why haven’t you found the blades in the bathroom, in my desk, under my pillow?_

 

 _Stop,_ Uncle Ben says. Passive, commanding attention. _I love you. Your parents loved you. Stop doing this to yourself._

 

 _And yet,_ Peter says. Calm, so calm, so calm. _You and my parents are dead._

 

Peter Parker believes in science. Uncle Ben is dead, not in a flowery way where he is dancing in heaven with angels and an endless euphoria of happiness. Peter believes, when you die, it is the lack of existence. When Peter dies, he will return to as he was before he was conceived.

 

Uncle Ben doesn’t exist anymore.

 

(Peter is a little envious.)

 

* * *

 

Peter comes in and out of sleep. His body feels very hot, and every moment he opens his eyes he is awash with dizziness. In one of these dreamy breaks in reality, he hears Aunt May on the phone.

 

“Tony,” She says, sighing. “I told you, his friend said he threw up. But I think there’s more going on than the flu.”

 

She pauses for a long moment. Peter’s eyes feel heavy in the silence. May says, softly, “He just looks up to you so much. You need to get him a more personalized experience in the lab, or whatever your interns do. He’s quit everything in school for this internship.”

 

 _May is a snitch,_ Peter thinks. He closes his eyes, and exhaustion sinks into him again.

 

* * *

 

He goes back to school the next day. Flash immediately accosts him.

 

“Why were you gone?” He hisses, leaning forward in his seat in AP Physics. Flash was directly behind him, leaving Peter to wince and flinch at his little nudges and comments throughout the day.

 

Peter is too tired to think about a clever comeback, so he says “I was sick.” He doesn’t turn around, facing the board in a way that belied his fatigue.

 

Flash scoffs. “Yeah, right,” he mutters, “don’t fucking skip class again. I probably failed the last test because I couldn’t copy you.”

 

 _Oh,_ Peter thinks, _that’s why he sits behind me._

 

“You have to do my homework from now on. To make up for it.” Flash whispers. Peter wants to cry.

 

“Oi, Thompson!” Mrs. Sanders snaps her fingers. Peter can feel Flash jolt up. “No talking!” She chides. Someone looks at Flash and rolls his eyes, and a girl giggles next to him.

 

Peter sinks into his seat, feels the cold metal rub against his healing wrist, and feels comforted in the stinging pain.

 

“You’re so weird,” Flash whispers, under his breath so only Peter can hear.

 

Peter presses his wrist harder into the desk.

 

* * *

 

Peter cries in the bathroom, a little, but passing period is ticking by like bomb in the back of his head and he’s too anxious to feel any catharsis. He trudges to gym with a pink nose and red-rimmed eyes.

 

All the mats are laid out on the gym floor, indicating a day of ab workouts and stretches. Peter’s eyes flicker across the room. He hesitates when he sees Michelle reading a book— _The Breadwinner_ , his eyes catch, all over-sensitive and acute—but he feels the familiar guilt twist in his gut and he turns to Ned.

 

Ned makes an aborted movement of waving, but seems to see something in Peter’s expression that makes him drop his hand.

 

Coach blows a whistle, and everyone clusters to their mats. “Everyone, sit-up position with partners…” he drones, his voice his usual lazy slur of words, “You know the drill.”

 

Ned holds down Peter’s feet, and Peter begins the simple workout. He absently wishes he had patrolled yesterday, so his muscles would be more sore and burn more when he moves.

 

Being sick really messed up Peter’s schedule. He’s already off-kilter from the extra stress of being Spider-Man and the whole Flash issue. He heard there was an ATM robbery while he was stuck in his room.

 

Also—what was with May? She definitely said something to Happy. Peter’s head throbs as he tries to recall the conversation, everything feeling dreamlike and dizzying that he’s not sure if it even happened. She had—mentioned Peter quitting the academic decathlon. He thinks? _I think there’s more going on than the flu,_ she had said. Well, _no_ , he didn’t even think he had the flu. Maybe an ear infection. Why didn’t his body metabolize the illness?

 

“—hey, Peter, did you hear that?” Ned whispers, leaning forward and grinning.

 

“Huh?” Peter says. His feet throb where Ned is squeezing them. Peter doesn’t mention it.

 

“Liz just said she has a crush on Spider-Man!” Ned squeals, albeit more quieter than usual, but a piercing cry to Peter’s overstimulated senses.

 

Peter tries to smile at the information, but it comes out wobbly. They hadn’t—acknowledged. The whole _Peter is Spider-Man_ deal. This is really the first time Ned has brought it up, and Peter feels jittery and nervous at the mention. Ned saying _Spider-Man_ just reminds Peter of bile rising up his throat.

 

“That’s cool.” Peter finally says, his tongue heavy. Liz having a crush on Spider-Man? Maybe he would’ve been flattered if he saw Spider-Man as an extension of himself, but it’s more like he dons a whole new persona when he wears that mask. Peter Parker is Spider-Man, sure, but it’s like saying Harrison Ford is Han Solo. Close, but not quite really at all.

 

Ned’s face falls. Maybe Peter’s disinterest is obvious. A pang of guilt tightens in Peter’s chest.

 

Ned doesn’t mention Spider-Man for the rest of the day. Peter is relieved.

 

* * *

 

Peter’s phone vibrates in his pocket as he’s grabbing his backpack from his locker. The bell rang a minute ago, and Peter was itching to drop down in some alley and start web-slinging.

 

He pulls it from his pocket and taps the screen. It’s two messages, from _happy hogan (!!)_. Peter’s stomach drops. He wonders if Happy is just telling him to shut up. Peter really did try to keep the voicemails to a minimum after that call with Tony, but he couldn’t help how eager he got to share his experiences—to ask about something more.

 

With trepidation, he unlocks his phone.

 

_You’re working in the lab with Tony after-school on Fridays. You start today._

 

and then,

 

_Waiting at the front. Black Audi._

 

Peter frantically shoulders his backpack, and rushes to the main entrance, where a flood of students chatter as they leave campus. He’s _what? Working with TONY STARK? In his PERSONAL LAB?_ Peter tries to hold back a grin, but its hard with the excitement, bubbly and warm in his stomach. He feels like a maniac, the way he’s smiling so widely.

 

As promised, a shiny black Audi is parked in front of the school. A row of cars trail behind it, indicating that Happy had been the first person there. Or maybe he cut someone off.

 

Peter steels himself as he approaches the car, his smile shrunken into a quivering line. He double-checks it’s Happy in the front seat, narrowing his eyes at the tinted window. Sure enough, the stone-faced man is seated, his sunglasses shiny and expensive.

 

With eagerness, Peter pulls open the door to the backseat and heavily sets his backpack onto the leather. Happy peers at him from the rearview mirror.

 

“Ready?” Happy asks, in a way that doesn’t bode well for any answer other than yes.

 

Peter nods as fast as he can, his mouth betraying him with a shaky grin. Happy sniffs, and directs his eyes to the road, pulling out of the right lane as the turn signal ticks.

 

And just like with the trip to the airport, an impending anxiety swallows up his excitement. Peter’s smile is suddenly easy to hide—he has no bubbling joy. Only the sweat sliding down his back, and a shaking leg. He looks out the window, at the passing buildings and streets. Why was he randomly going to the lab with Mr. Stark? It didn’t make any sense. Nothing had garnered the strange reward—promoting him to be near Mr. Stark’s personal space. Why the sudden change?

 

Peter’s heart thuds. _Maybe they think they need to keep an eye on me?_ Peter suspiciously eyes Happy’s impassive form.

 

To be fair, Peter was sick, earlier. But how would they know that?

 

Peter remembers May. She was being a snitch. This, he is sure of. What had she said? He closes his eyes, tries to really recall the memory. A delirious break in his sleep. The sweaty covers, his stomach turning. A phone call.

 

_You need to get him a more personalized experience in the lab, or whatever your interns do. He’s quit everything in school for this internship._

 

Oh. Right.

 

This makes more sense. Tony Stark and Happy Hogan don’t _real_ ly care about him. They’re just following directions. Listening to an over-concerned guardian.

 

 _This makes more sense,_ Peter thinks. And even though it’s more logical, what’s more expected, he can’t help the way it stings. His chest hurts. He wants to cry again, like he hasn’t done that enough already.

 

Peter rests his forehead on the chilly glass of the window. A tree passes by. He swallows the lump around his throat, like always, and blinks his watering eyes.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, kiddo, don’t look too excited!” Mr. Stark says, in a black tank top and sweatpants, waving a screwdriver in the air. Peter was ushered downstairs instead of being greeted at the entrance like he expected, and Tony was already in the middle of a project, given the scattered materials and skeleton of an engine laid in front of him.

 

Mr. Stark’s clearly being sarcastic. Peter doesn’t need to look in a mirror to know how disinterested he must look. Peter can’t help it. After knowing the motive of this whole operation, he feels cheated. He didn’t earn a reason to be in Tony’s lab other than how depressing he looks to others.

 

Peter should laugh at the attempt to lighten the tension, but he really can’t. He feels exhausted. Tony’s cheery face falls into a stilted smile.

 

“Alllright,” he drawls, like someone who’s used to having an audience hanging on their every word, “I took apart one of my old man’s car engines. Thought it’d be easy if we worked together on something easier, started a dynamic and all.” He waves his hand dismissively in the air.

 

Peter nods at the information, eyeing the materials more closely now that he has context.

 

“You normally take those computers apart with a friend, or…?” Mr. Stark trails off, waiting for a response.

 

“Huh?” Peter asks, “Oh, right. Yeah. I-I put them together on my own now. Used to do it with my Uncle, I guess.” Peter tries not to remember Ben’s rich laugh when Peter tried putting a wire in backwards for five minutes straight. It’s hard. Peter misses him. He wonders if making things with Mr. Stark will be just as fun.

 

“You guess.” Mr. Stark duly echoes. Peter flushes.

 

He starts asking Peter more questions, gives trivia about the model the engine is from and explains how he’s trying to modify it from the original. Peter pitches in with his own ideas, and for a sweet hour, it seems like they’ve finally clicked in a nice way. Peter laughs as oil smears across Tony’s forehead, _Oh, this, real funny, huh?_ Tony flicks some onto Peter’s nose, _Mr. Stark!_ and it’s— _nice_.

 

Which makes it so much worse when Peter remembers that Mr. Stark doesn’t really want to be here. He’s just doing something Aunt May asked him to do.

 

“Pete, hand me a few carriage bolts?” Mr. Stark asks, eyes squinted and lips pulled thin at a looping arm of the engine. Peter obediently picks up a handful from the metal drawer of screws and bolts, and drops them into Mr. Starks waiting hand.

 

Mr. Stark mutters thanks, glancing up a Peter. And then does a double take. His eyes are squinted and lip pulled straight, the same way he regarded the engine. Peter hates him, for a moment.

 

“You ok, kid?” He asks, voice softer than the earlier banter, but still dry and gruff.

 

“Yeah,” Peter says. It comes out meaner and faster than he wanted. Mr. Stark squints a little more, but turns back to the engine.

 

Not looking at him, Mr. Stark says, “Y’know, I think it’d be a good idea to have a physical on your Spidey powers. See how it affects your metabolism, your immune system, your healing rate. The important things.”

 

Peter blinks at the new subject. “Sure, yeah. That would be cool. Just don’t kill me and experiment on my body.” He says.

 

Accidentally, their jokes and teasing return at this, the dynamic returns, but it’s more tense. Peter can’t fully repress his resentment and irritation. It’s a little obvious.

 

Mr. Stark keeps giving him squinty-eyed looks. Peter’s chest feels tight the entire time.

 

* * *

 

As Happy turns a corner, on his way to drop Peter off to his apartment, a plume of purple smoke and a bright light shine underneath a bridge in the corner of his eye.

 

“Did you see that?” Peter blurts, frantic. This might be the first word he’s said to Happy all day.

 

Peter’s senses are taut, everything buzzing uncomfortably. He bristles.

 

“See what?” Happy asks, incredulous.

 

“That—explosion!” Peter exclaims, real worry clenching in his chest, “There was a purple explosion! East, over by a bridge, I think.”

 

“You saw all that and I didn’t notice?” Happy retorts, snorting.

 

“I have _enhanced spider-senses_ ,” Peter bites, “something is wrong. I can always tell when something bad is gonna happen. I think it’s part of my powers. Like a premonition.”

 

Happy is quiet, for a moment. Peter is spurred on by his silence.

 

“Seriously, I saw an explosion. That can’t be good. Could you mention this to Mr. Stark?” Peter feels so on edge he flinches at a motorcycle whizzing by. “I think it’s alien weapons. That’s not normal. There was weird weapons at that ATM robbery awhile ago, too, did you hear about that?”

 

“Yes, I did.” Happy says. He sighs. “I’ll call Mr. Stark. You sure about that premonition, spider-thing? You can’t be wasting my time.”

 

“I’m sure.” Peter says. He’s a little relieved by Happy conceding to Peter’s request, but still feels taut and uncomfortable. “Something is very wrong.”

 

Happy glances at him from the rearview mirror, eyes searching and solemn in an expression he never regarded Peter with in the past.

 

Peter sucks in a breath. Tries to calm his racing heart, his hair still standing on end.

 

Happy picks up his phone. “Tony?” He says. “There’s a problem.”

 

Peter tries very hard not to sigh in relief. He fails.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can u guys tell what i foreshadawoed if anyone figures out Next Chapter content correctly u get a smooch from me


	8. dark red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reddish and lamourcestlamour get a kith for guessing right
> 
> tw panic attack

Peter’s ears ring. He squints his eyes at the TV screen until he can see every nuance of the glass on the monitor, just to make sure he heard that right.

 

Sure enough, the yellow heading on the bottom of the screen reads, FATHER OF ONE ARRESTED FOR UNDERGROUND WEAPONS RING! ADRIAN TOOMES CAUGHT AS “VULTURE” LEADER OF…

 

On the TV there's a clip of Liz Allan crying and hugging her mom.

 

Peter swallows dryly. Maybe it had nothing to do with him. Maybe Liz’s dad was arrested for some other weapons ring. New York is a big state—who knows? Maybe… Maybe…

 

Peter’s eyes well up, and he falls backwards onto his couch. This is his fault. Peter feels guilt knock into him so hard for a moment it becomes hard to breathe. He’s the reason Liz is heartbroken right now. But—what was Peter supposed to do? Ignore something like that? How was he supposed to know it was Liz’s dad? It’s not his problem.

 

 _You told Happy to call Mr. Stark. If you left it alone Liz would be happy,_ he thinks. _But what about everyone else? It’s dangerous letting something like that continue. Who knows what could have happened?_

 

Peter’s phone rings. Thoughtlessly, he accepts the call.

 

“Hello?” Peter mumbles.

 

“Thanks, Pete. Me and Hap owe you one. That vulture was planning on going after one of the cargo flights we have…” Peter’s ears ring louder, and he doesn’t quite hear what else Mr. Stark says. So it is Peter’s fault, officially, he caused this. He feels all shaky, and everything is being sent into overdrive. His eyes well up from the brightness of the TV screen, and his skin stings where the couch chafes on him. His nerves are taut, rigid, and Peter is scared to even breathe because of how tight his throat feels, he thinks the air will get trapped. He sucks in a breath, regardless, and suddenly it’s like he can’t breathe enough. He keeps breathing so loud and heavy and fast and he can’t stop, he _can’t stop, fuck, stop, you’re hyperventilating, slow down, I can’t stop, my hand is shaking so hard what if I drop the phone, the phone—_

 

“—the phone with me, Tony Stark. Peter, breathe in, you’re on the phone with me. Feel something solid around you. Peter. You’re on the the phone with Tony Stark, listen to my voice.”

 

Peter grabs onto the couch like it’s a lifeline. He follows Mr. Stark’s directions. Breathe in… Breathe out…

 

Slowly, the world melts into clarity. Peter blinks rapidly. “ _Th_ -anks Mr. Stark, sorry, I…” he says, and fuck that’s embarrassing. He just had a panic attack on the phone with an Avenger.

 

“Peter.” Mr. Stark says. He sounds so serious, in a way Peter hasn’t heard before. Peter’s heart gets stuck in his throat, and _wow,_ his hand is still fucking shaking. “You shouldn’t apologize. There’s no shame in a panic attack, it’s okay. I used to—well, I still. Get them too. Don’t worry. You’re not alone in the whole anxious department.”

 

Peter starts crying, on the phone with Mr. Stark, because _fuck, that means a lot coming from him._ He feels a little warm and tingly. He cries harder.

 

“Ahah, kid, don’t worry!” Mr. Stark sounds so panicked Peter can’t help but laugh a little, “Let’s talk more Friday, okay? Remember Happy is picking you up.”

 

Peter nods, not trusting his voice, and then remembers Mr. Stark can’t see him. Before he can answer, the line beeps, indicating the end of the call.

 

Peter sniffs, rubs his snot off with the end of his sleeve, and feels sated for once. The tears washed away his impending sense of doom and anxiety, leaving a satisfying catharsis behind. Peter wobbly walks to his room, where his and Flash’s homework rests, and for once doesn’t want to sleep for eternity.

 

* * *

 

 

Of course, this doesn’t last, and come Friday Peter has angry red cuts all up and down his arms. It’s not like anything ruined his week in particular. Sure, Flash was a ghoul the entire week, taunting and shoving him, and maybe seeing Liz hugging her friends goodbye was really upsetting, but nothing ever really sends him over. It’s just so easy to fall back on. Like Peter could stutter, of all things, and want to cut himself for it.

 

And it’s so easy to hide. It’s not like this has horrible repercussions like drugs and alcohol do, he can just cut his skin, see the blood well up, and the wound be healed in an hour tops.

 

So, Peter is cut up and bleeding when he’s going to the lab. But it’s fine. Most of them are completely healed, anyways, and the ones that still sting will help him focus with assembling mechanical parts.

 

This time, when Peter arrives Tony is there to greet him at the front.

 

“Hey, Spider-kid,” He greets, his orange sunglasses shining where the light catches it. Peter smiles awkwardly. Only Tony Stark can wear sunglasses indoors and not look like a loser. “We’re going to a different part of the building, time to poke and prod at you, surprise! Might have briefly mentioned that last week.”

 

Peter blinks, and remembers the offhand comment. “Yeah, sure.” He says, trailing behind Mr. Stark as they go up a few floors.

 

Doctor Helen Cho is waiting for them, her hair slicked back into a bun and a clipboard flush against her chest in a way that that screams _I am someone who works in medicine._

 

Peter is a little starstruck.

 

“Hello, Doctor Cho, my favorite angry doctor PNG.” Mr. Stark says, with flourish. He gives an expensive smile. “I’m gonna work downstairs while you do your thing, Helen.”

 

She glares at Tony, but gives Peter an upturned grimace, before quickly spinning around. Her lab coat billows in the sudden displacement. Tony grins, and cocks a hand in goodbye at the two. Peter can’t help the thrum of anxiety at his departure, feeling like he has to impress Dr. Cho in Mr. Stark’s absence.

 

“We’re going to do a regular check-up, as well as test your reflexes, get samples of your DNA, and draw your blood to run trials. I understand you said you’ve been having issues with overstimulation? Your senses are more acute?” Dr. Cho says, briskly moving to a room that looks like any usual clinical room.

 

“Uh, sure. Yeah.” Peter says, hurrying after her. She tilts her head to the side, giving him a frown.

 

“Sure? Yeah?” Dr. Cho mimics, high-pitched and fast. Peter’s face feels hot, which he knows is visible so he flushes even hotter. “Give me clear answers, Peter, I don’t like uncertainty.” She chides.

 

Peter nods, looking down. “My senses are really—dialed. I feel everything, like, 11 times stronger than before I got bitten.” He remedies.

 

Dr. Cho hums in understanding. She sets her clipboard down, and everything continues as a regular physical would, if a little more extreme. She checks his hearing, eyesight, heart-beat, blood pressure, weight and height. He knows his results are abnormal, given her intrigue at every new assessment, and he feels like he succeeded in being mutated.

 

“Okay,” Dr. Cho announces, like she has been for every test. Her eyes scour her clipboard. “Next I’m going to need you to spit into a tube for DNA testing. This is to calculate the discrepancies between your old human DNA to your new mutations.” She looks up at him, “Easy, right?” Maybe if this was delivered with a joking tone and smile, he would feel comforted, but her monotone and dead eyes were just alarming.

 

“Y-Yeah?” Peter stutters. She ignores him, going to a cupboard and pulling out a plastic tube with a blank white label. She writes SM on the label. Peter feels oddly pleased.

 

Dr. Cho uncaps the tube. “I don’t need a lot of saliva, and I only say that because Steve Rogers filled his to the brim when I didn’t clarify.”

 

Peter coughs to disguise his laugh. “Noted,” he says. He takes the tube from her gloved hands.

 

He sucks on his salivary glands, near his front teeth, and quietly _ptoo_ ’s into the tube. Dr. Cho methodically takes it back, re-caps it, and drops it into an air-tight bag.

 

“Okay,” she announces. It’s repetitive, but comforting. The clipboard is back in her hands, a familiar sight. “Now I need to draw your blood, to analyze your white blood cells which likely accelerate your healing rate.” She looks up at him. “Roll up your sleeve. I’ll get the syringe now.” She turns around to a cupboard.

 

Peter has a minor heart attack. _Fuck._ She definitely can’t see his arms. He had been cutting himself all day, the red lines healing but still visible on his arms, legs, and stomach.

 

“Could you draw blood from…” Peter trails off, trying to think of an area of his body uninjured and not strange to draw blood from. “My calve?” Peter asks. His thighs and arms are unavailable, and he’s really not ready for her to draw blood from his butt. Peter’s heartbeat miraculously quickens when she turns around with a baffled look.

 

“Your _calve_?” Dr. Cho repeats, incredulous. “No, Peter, just roll up your sleeve.” Dr. Cho’s eyes squint, scrutinizing, like she just realized something. “Why can’t I see your arms?” She asks. Peter can feel the panic overtaking him, and forces himself to take deep breaths.

 

“It’s… private.” Peter says. He leans back in his chair, trying to put distance between himself and Dr. Cho.

 

“I’m bringing Mr. Stark up. If you aren’t going to tell me, you’re going to tell him.” She says, with finality. She speeds to the corner of the room where a bright red StarkPhone rests on the counter.

 

“No, WAIT!” Peter cries. He goes to stand up. Dr. Cho glares at him. Peter fearfully sits down. Her thumbs speed across her phone, followed by her holding it against her ear.

 

“Come up, Parker is giving me trouble.” She hangs up without waiting for a response.

 

Peter sucks in another shaky breath, clenching and unclenching his jaw. Unthinkingly, he starts scratching his wrist.

 

Dr. Cho’s eyes drop to his hands. Peter immediately stops. Understanding dawns on her face. “You—” she starts, interrupted by the door swinging open.

 

Mr. Stark strides in, his face unsmiling. Peter wants to die, a little. Dr. Cho ushers him towards her, and she whispers something in his ear. Peter catches _he might be self-harming_ and feels his heart catch in his throat. His pulse is so loud it’s deafening.

 

Mr. Stark turns to him, and crouches down to reach his level from where he’s seated on a short chair. Peter’s eyes water. Mr. Stark looks worried, his eyebrows furrowed and sunglasses off his face.

 

“Peter, why can’t we see you arms?” He asks. His voice is very soft. Peter clenches and unclenches his jaw.

 

“Please don’t,” Peter begs, not answering the question. Mr. Stark looks very sad.

 

Gently, with every movement exaggerated, Mr. Stark lifts his hand until it’s hovering over Peter’s sleeve. Peter swallows, the lump forms, his chin wobbles.

 

“May I…?” Mr. Stark asks, leaving the question open-ended. Peter looks down. He can see himself shaking.

 

Mr. Stark lightly touches Peter’s sleeve, and pushes the fabric up his arm. The movement is so gentle Peter can’t bring himself to push the man away. Someone gasps, Peter can’t be sure if it’s Mr. Stark or Dr. Cho or both, he’s still studiously staring down, at his thighs shaking and trembling on the leather seat.

 

“Peter?” Mr. Stark says, “Did you do this to yourself?” He says it slow, like he’s trying to be calm, but Peter can hear the fear in his voice.

 

Peter’s tears drop down. They leave little round, wet circles on his jeans. “Yeah.” Peter answers, in the same fake calm with the same hidden fear. Mr. Stark’s inhales, sharp and fast.

 

Peter finally looks at his exposed right arm, and despite the blurriness of his tears, he feels like his cuts have never been more clear. He sees the skin, angry and raised, peeling in tiny curls around the slices, the dried blood clotted a deep red adjacent to his too-pale skin, the varying in thickness, layered over and over each other, some of the skin tinged purple where he slashed several times. It feels like the first time he’s really looked at himself.

 

Peter hears someone sob, and then realizes it’s coming from him. Suddenly, he can’t stop his whines and choked, abhorrent noises, so embarrassing his stomach twists and his face flushes hot and he wants to throw up, a little. It’s hard to breathe, again, like on the phone-call earlier that week.

 

“ _Pete_ r,” Mr. Stark says. He pulls Peter into a warm hug. Peter cries harder, and desperately hugs the man back, his bare arm rubbing on the fabric of Mr. Starks worn-in T-shirt. He gasps and chokes on his own tears, trying to breathe and maybe failing. “Why would you do that to yourself?” Mr. Stark asks, hands fisting in the back of Peter’s shirt.

 

Peter cries harder. The rooms spins, a little, and maybe Peter wasn’t breathing very good or well because dark blotches censor his already blurry vision, and well.

 

He passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lazy ending..? Maybe so! i dont remmeber much about helen cho and i didnt want to rewatch ultron for her two seconds of character so. if shes ooc sorry ]€]¥{*~€~£ this is such an important part of this fic and idk if i did it justice maybe feedback would be nice


	9. dissolve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just obvious triggers

The world bleeds into clarity.

 

Everything is turning, in a slow, dizzying movement. Peter blinks rapidly, not recognizing the shiny tiled floor as anything in Aunt May’s apartment.

 

“Peter!” Someone says, in a rush.

 

Peter’s head feels like lead, and before he can attempt to look up at the voice, a blurry figure crouches down to his level. Peter blinks more, feeling an irrational urge to wear his glasses that he hasn’t touched in months.

 

Tony Stark’s face comes into focus, brows creased and his chest heaving. He’s sweating, and his left arm is trembling, gripped tightly by his right hand.

 

“Mr. Stark…?” Peter slurs. Then, the last few minutes returns to him quickly, and he feels his heartbeat speed up with the crawling anxiety lurching in his stomach.

 

Peter’s still in the clinical room, which suddenly feels so much smaller and tighter than before. He’s on the floor, back against the examination table, the wax paper clinging to his sweaty neck. His sleeve is now rolled down to its original spot, disguising his injured skin.

 

“Yeah, Underoos, it’s me,” Mr. Stark responds, his voice fast and a little choked. There’s a dixie cup in his hands that wasn’t there earlier. He holds it to Peter expectantly. “You need to drink some water. Then we’ll talk.”

 

The word _talk_ makes Peter’s pulse race faster. He tries his hardest to rein in his panic, thinks of titrations and molar ratios. “O-kay,” Peter says, slowly enunciating each vowel to hide how tight his throat feels. He obediently takes the cup.

 

Peter downs the drink, feels the cool liquid get lodged somewhere and in his esophagus and swallows harder to let it pool in his stomach. He feels nauseous, which is so strange because it’s _water_. Who feels sick after drinking actual life-juice?

 

Peter looks around, and realizes Dr. Cho isn’t in the room any longer. He wonders if she left before or after he fainted. God, he _fainted_? He’s so embarrassing.

 

“Kid, whatever you’re thinking, you gotta stop.” Mr. Stark says. Peter’s face gets hot, not expecting to be caught. “Take a seat somewhere more comfortable, and let me know when you’re ready to talk about it.” His eyes are intense.

 

Peter ducks his head, and rises quickly. The movement makes him woozy, off-kilter. Mr. Stark steadies him by the shoulder, having risen up the same time Peter did.

 

“Pete, you’re killin’ me here.” Mr. Stark mumbles. Peter’s face burns even more.

 

Peter sits down heavily on the chair he was on earlier, then feels uncomfortable and gets up. “Can—can we go somewhere else? A sitting room?” Peter asks, hesitant and quiet. He’s still avoiding Mr. Stark’s gaze.

 

“Sure, of course,” Mr. Stark says, fast. He seems to understand Peter’s reluctance to elaborate, so he gets up and leaves the room, leaving Peter trailing behind him.

 

Peter fiddles with his sleeve, and wonders if Mr. Stark is going to take all his blades away. That would take a while. Besides, most of them are hidden so well that it won’t matter if Mr. Stark tries to get rid of them—Peter has back-ups of back-ups. And back-ups of those back-ups.

 

They stop in a small sitting area, a large window taking up one wall of the room, the white curtains drawn a sliver open, lights from the setting sun catching on the white coffee table in the center of the room. There’s an off-white loveseat, and two matching armchairs positioned around it. Everything still has an uncomfortable, modern feel to it, nothing like the cozy cluttered state of May’s apartment.

 

Mr. Stark goes to sit in an armchair closest to the door, leaving Peter to sit on the armchair by the window. Peter wonders if it’s intentional—to make sure Peter doesn’t make a run for it.

 

“I don’t want to rush you, or anything like that, kid, but you can’t just not say anything.” Mr. Stark says, after a few moments of silence on both their ends.

 

Peter sighs. It comes out more shaky than he wanted. He’s still all panicky and nervous, and he still can’t quite look at Mr. Stark’s face, but he’s more settled in this new environment than the examination room.

 

“I… It’ll help if you—ask me questions.” Peter says. He resists the urge to stomp on his foot or scratch his wrist. “I don’t think I can just talk about… ” He trails off, not sure how to refer to the whole situation.

 

“Alright,” Mr. Stark says. Peter feels scared, despite having suggested this. “How long have you been hurting yourself?”

 

Peter should be grateful that Mr. Stark’s not glossing over it, or censoring, but instead all Peter can feel is an impending sense of doom. He’s shaking again. Peter looks at the ceiling, and tries to calculate.

 

“I dunno, I started, like around second semester of freshman year? So… 11 months? A year?” Peter nods to himself, and hazards a glance at Mr. Stark.

 

He looks stricken. “A year.” He repeats. “So you weren’t Spider-Man, when this all started?”

 

Peter nods. “Yeah, I wasn’t.” His voice is steadily calming, but his anxiety remains evident in his shaking form.

 

Mr. Stark breathes in. “What—why do you? Hurt yourself?” He asks.

 

That was the big question, wasn’t it? _Why?_ Peter closes his eyes. Even seeing Mr. Stark in his peripheral will make him feel too nervous, too attention-seeking, ingenuine.

 

“I wanted good grades—and like. Cutting myself helped me wake up. That’s how it was, really, at first. I just wanted good grades.” Peter sucks in a shaky breath, a hard lump in his throat. “Then I got, like, stressed about some bullies and cutting myself helped me calm down. And I guess I couldn’t really stop from there. It makes me feel better when I’m sad, or anxious or anything—or like when I want to—punish myself. And stuff. Like when Ben died, I felt so much better after I—y’know. Cut up my thigh ‘nd all.” Peter opens his eyes, but stares studiously at the floor. “It’s not a big deal or anything, y’know? I have a healing factor. I bet my arm is all healed up now. It’s fine.” He shrugs.

 

“It’s _not_.” Mr. Stark says. “Peter, it’s not fine. Coping like that—forcing all the hurt onto yourself isn’t good. It’s a cycle of pain.” His voice is strong, steady. “You can’t carry that all on your own. You can rely on people. You have your aunt, that Jed kid, and—you have… me.” He says _me_ all quiet, which just makes Peter feel angry.

 

Peter remembers that lab days and doctor examinations were all Aunt May’s idea, nothing to do with Happy or Mr. Stark, and gets even more mad. His head hurts.

 

“You see, you say that—” Peter tightens a fist onto the arm of his chair, his skin turning white where he sinks his fingers deeply, “—you say that, but you don’t really give a shit about me. You didn’t even want to hang out with me on Friday’s, or anything, and you don’t trust me on actual missions, and all you do is stare at me with that sad fucking look on your face!” Peter shouts, looking up, his whole body shaking, chest heaving and jaw clenching.

 

Mr. Stark is looking at him, really looking at him, his eyes all deep and understanding in that way that Peter simultaneously craves and fears.

 

“Just because lab days weren’t my idea doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.” He says it firmly, like he’s stating a fact. “I don’t want to see you hurt—that’s why you’re not on difficult missions anymore. That’s why I look at you. I _worry_ about you, Peter.”

 

Peter feels the rage bleed out of him, and gets an overwhelming urge to cry. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

 

“Kid, I get it.” Mr. Stark says. “I lash out inappropriately at people too, I just don’t apologize for it.”

 

Peter laughs, and feels a little relieved at the lapse from heavy conversation.

 

“It’s gotta stop, though.” Mr. Stark says. Peter’s anxiety rushes back, full force and sinking all over his body. “You can stay here tonight, if you like, or you can tell your aunt and go home. But I’m not letting you hurt yourself again.”

 

“I’ll go home and tell May.” Peter lies. He’s definitely not telling May anything—he needs to cut, and May doesn’t need the added stress this knowledge will give her.

 

Mr. Stark nods, understandingly. “Okay. I trust you.” He says.

 

Peter feels a faint stab of guilt in his gut.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter goes home.

 

Aunt May bids him goodnight, Peter returns the sentiment. He slides into bed, cuts his thighs and arms and stomach, violently and shakily, and falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter enters the kitchen the following morning, Aunt May hovering at the counter, her hair shadowing her face.

 

 _Fuck,_ Peter thinks. His heart jolts, speeding up all fast and nervous again.

 

“Peter, I just got a phone-call from Tony,” she says, voice wet. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

 

“I’m sorry!” Peter blurts. “I’m sorry, but how was I supposed to tell you about that, anyways—I—I’m sorry.” He’s babbling, avoiding real words as a way to not acknowledge anything directly.

 

May lifts her head, and her glasses are off, tears streaming down her face. “Peter,” she says, “last night, did you do it again? Be honest. Did you cut yourself again?”

 

Peter looks down. “No.” He says. He can’t tell the truth. It would hurt her too much.

 

“You can’t do this to me,” Aunt May says, hysterical, “you can’t keep lying to me, Peter, I can’t do this.” She throws her arms up, “Peter, tell me truth. _Did you cut yourself again?_ ”

 

Peter flinches back. He stares at the fridge behind her, and nods. He clenches his teeth tightly, and feels his enamel shaking with the action.

 

“ _Merda,”_ she says. She only swears in Italian when she’s emotional.

 

* * *

 

 

Tony Stark is in his apartment. Aunt May and him are sitting on the couch by the TV, staring Peter down where he’s seated on the opposite end of the room.

 

“Clearly, this didn’t sink in with you before.” Mr. Stark says. Peter self-consciously tugs down on his short sleeves, that Aunt May is now forcing him to wear around the house.

 

“It’s stupid,” Peter says, “It’s not like I’m doing drugs or anything.”

 

“You’re still addicted.” May points out, nose pink from fresh tears. She sniffs.

 

“There’s a few things I didn’t ask about yesterday, that I really should have.” Mr. Stark says, grunting as he shifts forward. “You mentioned you’re getting bullied?” He asks.

 

Peter blinks, then shrugs. “Yeah, it’s not that bad, though.” He says, thinking of Flash forcing him to leave everything he loves, of the extra homework in his backpack for him to do.

 

“Is it Flash Thompson, again?” Aunt May asks. She says it slow, cautious, like she’s waiting for Peter to burst into wails again.

 

She’s not far off the mark. Peter grinds his teeth, waves crashing in a cacophony of noise around his ears. “Yeah. He knows that I… cut, ‘nd all. He makes me do his homework. And made me leave some clubs. It’s whatever.” Peter shrugs, again, trying to make it no big deal because he won’t function if it is.

 

“He’s blackmailing you.” Mr. Stark translates. Peter shrugs.

 

Mr. Stark rubs his temple, looking up as if to compose himself. May is staring blankly at Peter, the only indication of processing his words in her wobbling lower lip.

 

“When you self-harm,” Mr. Stark starts, hesitant, “is it only cutting? Or do you hurt yourself in other ways?”

 

Peter swallows. He wants to lie, badly, but staring straight at them with his gut twisting, he also wants to tell the truth. He feels smug, weirdly, that he’s done so much of this behind their backs. _This is what I’ve devolved into_ , he thinks, _aren’t you scared? Aren’t you worried? Don’t you wish you noticed sooner?_ He feels guilty right after, his heart twisting, but he can’t help how oddly pleased the parental attention makes him feel.

 

“I… yeah, I have other ways.” Peter finally says. “Nothing that bad though. It’s not like I burn myself, or anything—like when I shower I make it sting.” The confession sounds lame, and he scratches the back of his neck. “I—I dunno, I have this habit of scratching and pinching myself. I guess the only other big problem is that I get into fights on purpose sometimes, ‘cause I like when I get all bruised.”

 

Aunt May holds her hand to her mouth, shutting her eyes tightly. Mr. Stark looks pale, his throat bobbing as he swallows. Peter feels ashamed. He stares down at the floor, avoiding their afflicted expressions.

 

Mr. Stark whispers something to May, making her sigh and shuffle out of the room. Peter glances up, curious, to see Mr. Stark leaning in with a severe face.

 

“I know you’re using Spider-Man to hurt yourself,” he says.

 

Peter can feel his heart grind to a stop. “W-What?” He says, laughing. “What are you talking about?” He doesn’t know what else to do but play dumb, and pray Mr. Stark takes it back.

 

This plan predictably fails. Mr. Stark studiously stares down Peter, making Peter’s ears burn in embarrassment at the brunt of his gaze. “You and I know that’s not going to work. ‘Get into fights on purpose’?” Mr. Stark uses air quotations, his eyebrow cocked. “You need to give me the suit until we work through this, and your mental health is stable enough to handle the job.” Mr. Stark holds his hands out, as if he expects Peter to get up and hand it over right there. Just like that.

 

“No—Mr. Stark, no. You don’t understand—” Peter gives a short, huffing laugh, “—I, I can’t function without being, Spider-Man? I need to—go out and help people. Otherwise what’s—what’s the point of my powers?” He can’t stop stuttering, ending his sentences in questions, his panic and incredulity distorting his words.

 

Mr. Stark sighs. “Kid, you have these powers, you feel this responsibility to help, but what is it costing you?” Mr. Stark takes a shuddering breath. “You gotta give me the suit.”

 

Peter sniffs, and clenches his jaw. He rises to his feet, eyes down in shame. The walk to his bedroom is slow, Mr. Stark steadily trailing behind him. Grabbing the Spider-Man suit from his backpack is even slower. He’s scared to look up as he unzips his bag, scared to see Mr. Stark looking irritated and exasperated and tired. He feels his head go empty, and fill up again.

 

“I’m scared.” Peter says, wobbly. He looks up. Mr. Stark isn’t exasperated, or irritated, or tired. He’s sad.

 

“Everyone gets scared,” he says. He takes the suit out of Peter’s hands, and it’s gone.

 

Peter feels something shudder to a halt inside of him—something shrivel up and die, going missing from his brain. He breathes in through his nose, and out his mouth, presses his nails tightly into the soft flesh of his palm.

 

“If you really think this suit meant that much to you—to what Spider-Man is—it’s better that you don’t have it.” Mr. Stark says. He still looks sad, his words firm but his expression soft.

 

Peter nods mutely.

 

 

* * *

 

 

By that night, all sharp objects are removed from the house, the water can’t go hot enough to sting anymore, and Peter is on house arrest between Stark Tower and his apartment. It’s weird. Even the pencil sharpener in his backpack, the razor underneath his grapefruit face wash—all of it is missing.

 

He sits in his room, the moon hanging in the sky and May sleeping restlessly. And he scratches himself with the blunt ends of his nails, bites and twists and pinches his skin, slams his fist against his thighs until they stain purple.

 

It doesn't feel the same.

 

Peter takes a shuddering breath, his nose blocked and stuffed, forcing him to take quiet gasping breaths. He’s tearing up, his chest tight and his hands throbbing from where he’s smacked them together.

 

No matter how much he scrapes his skin down, his arm stinging and pink with sparse dots of red blood, it doesn’t have the same immediate relief. Cutting feels official—the blood slowly rising, coalescing and drying into a sticky red line, hurting and burning hours after. This feels like nothing. It feels like false retribution, like he’s a fraud taking the easy way out.

 

He wishes he could put on the mask. Feel the background noise disappear, hone in on his sense of touch so his skin is so sensitive that even brushing against something feels painful. He wants to go out and save someone’s life—feel important. Right now he doesn’t quite feel like he’s worth anything.

 

Peter lets the tears stream silently, slipping down the side of his face and into his hairline.

 

 _I want to get better,_ Peter thinks, _I want to recover._

 

It feels important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic  
> a) almost has 1000 kudos  
> b) is almost finished  
> both are crazy to me  
> i love u guys so much im sorry i dont really reply to comments anymore but i read every word abd they mean the world to me <3 absolurely would not continue this if i wasnt getting so muhc motivation On the real


End file.
